Recruit
by LifeIndeed
Summary: In his campaign to conquer Camelot, the warlord Uther creates a special division of his army called 'Recruits': sorcerers forced into servitude and controlled through powerful, binding magic. Arthur, on his first mission, is scoping out new recruits when he meets Merlin. Not surprisingly, things go awry quite quickly from there. Pre-Canon Slave!AU. COMPLETE.
1. At Play

**A/N: Warning! Dark themes involving slavery, dehumanization, magical bondage and occasional violence. Plus a lot of that lovely Author-abuses-Merlin trope. (No sex, intense swearing or intense violence though, so rating stays at T.)**

 **Wow, that made this fic sound absolutely horrible. Anyway, proceed at your own risk.**

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 **1\. At Play**

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Summary:

 _We're at the edge of the ever-moving crowd, and Foehart crouches down to meet my eyes. His words are the last thing I expect. "I've learned there is a recruit here, Arthur: a person your father needs."_

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It's the strangest, most peaceful-looking sight.

I know tents and lodgings. Camp fires and scavenged greens.

"Quite pretty, innit?" Foehart murmurs down to me, and I grin up at him.

It's a small little place. Squat cottages, fields of crop, pens and chimneys. Small curls of friendly smoke filter from them, musking the village with a scent strangely different than campfires. The sun shines happy on the women's covered heads, the harvested straw and merry, dirty worker men. I almost forget we have a purpose in coming here; I just see other children, playing in the dirt off the side of the common area, shouting at each other. Worn holes and last year's too-short trousers, revealing scraped knees and dirty shins. A cluster of girls slightly separate giggle, one tripping a boy that runs past after he yanks on her dirty-blond braid. Laughter.

A hard little nugget of longing settles in my gut, seeing them play.

I have to squint to see anything, of course - the day is sunny, and that's good for our purpose. Just a few evenings ago, the importance of even the weather was relayed to me. 'Talking to them,' my father explained. 'Finding out what you can.'

'Finding out what, sir?'

'Who's the rat in the sea of mice - somebody always knows. You'll see.'

And here we are. I keep watching as we approach, however, and cannot help thinking these peasants seem more comparable to busy ants than rodents."You ready?" Sir Foehart, his trusted knight, says now, tugging along the carefully-covered tumbril. I steer clear from it as we walk, unsettled by the occasional moan or faint rustling that comes muffled through the canvas. "Arthur?"

"What?" I glance up.

His face carries a half-concerned, half-amused look. "Are you all right?"

I nod absently, my mind leagues away. The mission has been retreating to the back of it more with every step we take from Camp - the forefront being the taste of simplistic freedom this little dwelling place seems to offer.

"Good," he nods back. "It's all about experience, my boy. In time, nothing here will seem appealing to you, not in the slightest."

We reach the main path; more children, more people come into view, carrying baskets and buckets and bags. More smells too, good ones like baking bread and herbs, and pungent ones like manure and body odor. The people all glance at us in curiosity, pausing a moment to greet us in passing. "Goo'day," and "Safe travels" and other niceties. I inspect their faces, noting which ones look like they mean it and which ones couldn't be more suspicious of unfamiliar faces. Foehart nods back at them all, smiling his big grin easily. Then with a tip to a nice, twiggy-looking woman, he's allowed the nook between her chicken pen and cottage to place the cart, just off the main pavilion.

"Now we find the talkers," he whispers in my ear, squeezing my shoulder lightly. I nod, completely lost on accomplishing such an endeavor. But this is nothing new for him, to say the least. Foehart scratches the red beard perched proudly on his jaw, surveying the people around us with a twinkle in his cheery green eyes. Then, when someone seems to catch his gaze, the knight winks one down at me before walking into the masses.

I follow him close, weaving through the legs and wheelbarrows of the grown-ups. 'Townsfolk, the most basic of our race,' my father's said of them. In a tone I'd know anywhere; he uses it on the obstinate recruits, the daring women, the over-playful children. On me, like when I once swam deeper into the river, ignoring Yilgrid's cries about the current. A tone that left me dripping and staring at my feet an hour later, paralyzed more by the dismissive, amused inflection of his voice than any tone of anger could ever manage.

I don't notice what Foehart's doing, or who he's talking to. It's boring exchanges, on weather and crops and raiders. "Weather's been good, all good, for rather a ten year," one man says dismissively, and immediately moves on. "Crop's been good, raiders happy abou' that," a witheringly old woman supplies. They talk of a recurring name, spoken of in mutters; Kanen, his name often accompanied by an oath and spitting at the ground. Other than that, no freakish droughts or miracle storms or diseased crops or special fields that seem to do better than any other are reported.

As the sun treks higher into the sky Foehart starts looking frustrated, though without fail he still slowly patterns the subject in a way that inevitably leads to our goal, our reason for being here. On the subject of unnatural occurrences—sudden deaths of livestock, miraculous recoveries, strange births. Unnatural occurrences village gossips would be sure to blather about.

None are forthcoming.

My eyes wander eventually, dragged across the bustling life around me almost unwittingly, by colors and aromas and sounds. I see a group of boys near a hog's pen; they're kicking a bladder back and forth, dirty and grinning and yelling in hoarse, excited voices. With a glance up at Foehart's distracted state, I draw nearer, watching.

It appears to be a primitive game of back and forth; one dribbles the bladder ahead, the rest chasing for a chance to capture it. None of them look older than my thirteen years, though a few might be taller. One of them's good too—too good for the other boys. He keeps stealing it and bouncing it in the air with his knees, out of their reach. I observe for a while, till I am sure I understand. Then, when a kick draws them nearer to me, I plunge into the mass.

None of them notice the intruder at first. It's not till I kick the ball out of the best boy's grasp, three captures later, that they all halt and stare. Bright, wide eyes meet mine, a skinny boyish face looking at me curiously. "Who're you?" the best boy asks, pushing back a filthy mop of dark hair. I give him my best smile.

"Better than you," I say simply, and he narrows his eyes to slits, rushing at me with a challenging smirk.

It's a fun game, if a never-ending one. I have possession, than someone kicks it out of reach and gets possession. Run, repeat. Twice I get kicked in the shins, once thrown in the dirt. The best tactic, I quickly learn, is to stay ahead of the crowded mass of average boys at any cost, who all end up running back and forth for the ball but never touching it. Once I achieve that, the game's an exhausting, yet soothing matter of ebb and flow.

I've stolen the bladder yet again, the fourth time in the past ten minutes, when I hear a familiar voice.

"ARTHUR."

Foehart stares crossly as I look up, and the ball is swiftly kicked away the second I do by the best boy, who laughs in triumph. The rest follow.

"Sorry sir," I breathe, fighting for enough air. He shakes his head at me, grabs me by the collar and tows me away.

I silently pray for a scolding, a beating, anything but the promise to report to my father. The stern look on Foehart gives little away; I can't tell his verdict. But my head is spiraling on a dizzying path of excuses, lies, and pleas while he tows me along, intent on never letting my father hear how I succumbed to such childish impulses - and with commoners, no less.

We reach the edge of the ever-moving crowd, and Foehart crouches down to meet my eyes. His words are the last thing I expect. "I've learned there is a recruit here, Arthur: a person your father needs." He glances up around us, like someone might be listening, before continuing, "This last woman, she mentioned her daughter getting lost with a boy in a cavern. When the girl fell he tended to her wound - but not by any mundane means. A story, but one that can quickly be . . . verified, if we can. I need your help to find where he lives."

I nod quickly, unsure what I can do. This is our mission—my first mission, to confirm the location of a new recruit. Not to chase a bladder around with a pack of dirty peasants. "Hunith's boy, that's what they called him," Foehart explains quietly, "and I need you to find him for me, get this boy to come back to the cart. Ask him if he can help the sick woman we've brought."

I glance in the direction of the cart, unsettled at the thought of lifting its cover.

"Why? Isn't she almost dead?"

"Yes." Foehart says no more, just claps me on the back and leaves. No directions, no advice. This is the time to prove myself; I know. But still I stare after him as he returns to the crowd, dumbstruck, a sickening cluster of worry clumping in my stomach.

Worry that I'll fail.

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 **A/N: Don't worry, Arthur! 'Hunith's boy' is the one who should worry . . .**

 **MY next project! This first chapter is actually quite long compared to many that will follow, but they will all follow at very specific times. I've written most of this story out, and I'll be posting a chapter every other day at the same time, starting: NOW. All feedback welcomed and appreciated!**

 **Recruit Reader Reflection: What's with the woman in that covered cart? Why are Foehart and Arthur really here? Will 'Hunith's Boy' be willing to help?**


	2. Hunith's Boy

**2\. Hunith's Boy**

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Summary:

 _Merlin takes a hesitant step forward, pity replacing disgust. "I've never seen anything like this," he whispers, mouth hardly moving._

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I go back to the group of boys, find them off the main path chewing on grass.

"Where's Hunith's boy?" I ask bluntly, eyeing their surprised faces.

That one boy, the filthy-haired but good-at-ball kid, looks at me hard. "Why do you care where he is?"

The other boys snicker and the filthy boy glares, sufficiently shutting them up. "I need . . . his help," I say, feeling my face heat. The boy squints at me, stands and pulls the green blade out of his mouth. Finally he nods, beckoning me with a finger as he walks past. Relieved, I follow.

"Name's . . . Will," he tells me, and I nod.

"Arthur."

"Nice." Now that we're out of sight of the other boys, next to a rather lop-sided shed, he stops. His hands slam into my chest, pushing me against a wooden wall. Which creaks dangerously. "What do you want with Merlin anyhow?" His mouth is set, hard, bony hands pinching into me. For a boy no older than 12 years, he's surprisingly intimidating.

I don't struggle. "My mum's sick and dying," I say quietly, and it has the desired effect; Will releases me like I'm the sick one.

"Oh." The boy looks down, scratches awkwardly at his dirt-encrusted hair. Then he squints at me. "How do you know he could help?"

"Can he?" I reply, raising an eyebrow.

"Depends on what needs helping," he smirks, but his eyes are sizing me up still.

"Please. I've heard - well, there isn't much hope, anyway."

Will's mouth twists to the side. " Guess I'll show you to him," he finally allows, though his eyes still look suspicious at me. "Probably with . . . his mum, I'd reckon."

Will pulls me along by the wrist, weaving through houses and pens and barns. The town is small, no larger than the inner ring of Camp. Just a clearing in the eyes of kings and lords. Soon the buildings change, turn from bright cottages to squat huts. The common path turns bumpy; the stink of people lessens. Fewer villagers bustle around, the occasional person to lift their heads as we pass usually a woman feeding skinny animals or peeling roots. I follow Will's back, noticing how his filthy hair fits in right well around here. **  
**  
He stops when we reach a small little place, moving on to the back after he peeks inside. No one's home save a flustered chicken, squawking at us till Will walks around. To find another kid almost filthy as him.

The second village boy is sitting on a barrel behind the house, stooping over something in his hands. All I can see is the long brown hair of his bowed head, looking up when he notices our presence.

"Who's this kid, Merlin?" The boy stands and says, though his mean glare at me seems to mean he's judged me for himself already.

"Wait - I thought your name was Will?"

The second boy guffawed. "You sure did a number on this poor fellow!" He slapped the first boy, not-Will-but-maybe-Merlin, on the back with pride. Then his cheery expression immediately flattens into a sneer as he puts himself in between me and the other boy. "Merlin only brings people to me if they're in need of a beating, do you hear?"

I glance back at maybe-Merlin in disbelief, but the dark-haired boy has his head down, sitting working on whatever this angry, shorter one had been earlier. "Maybe he's a sore loser," I make up on the spot, shrugging. "I beat him about 10 times at that ball game."

The brown-haired boy merely snorts. "No chance. He's the best of the bunch, he is. Too fast for everyone."

"Not for me," I shrug again, smirking.

His eyes narrow. "Maybe I will give you a good pounding, beat the shite out of you about 10 times in exchange."

"Go ahead and try," I drawl back with my arms crossed, though both fists are clenched.

"Wait."

The voice of Merlin, or at least who I assume is Merlin now, stops us both from the swings we are about to deliver.

He puts down the things in his hands, and it takes me a second to realize he's been sewing. "All right."

Merlin stares at me, expectantly, and I stare dumbly back.

"Sorry?"

He sighs in impatience. "All right, I'll help you. While you and Will have been yapping off empty threats at one another -"

" - Oi! I was one second away abouts from - "

" - I've decided. So . . . ?" He gestures at me to continue, ignoring Will's face of disbelief.

"Oh! I'm Arthur," I jab a thumb at my chest. "My . . . mum's, she's not doing so well. I was passing through, with my father, and heard you could. Umm. Help us."

His eyes intimidate me for some reason, hindering my speech into garbled phrases.

"How?" Merlin asks. I swallow.

You're not supposed to say it. You really aren't. My father says 'recruits' and 'their forces' and the 'weapon,' substitutes for words I've heard only murmured.

Sorcerors. Spells.

Magic.

Merlin stands up then; he's looking at my face closely, noticing my discomfort."You all right?"

"He's gonna sick all over," Will grins, and I scowl.

"Bet it'd improve your smell," I shoot back, and his eyes narrow to slits.

Hunith's boy laughs.

"You've a bad job of making friends, don't you?" he guesses, and I shake my head.

Wrong. I never try making them.

"Just worried about my mum is all," I say instead.

Merlin cocks his head a bit, eyes growing concerned. "Is she really that sick?"

Well no, she's dead, but that would put a gaping hole in my tale. So I just nod. And apparently it's enough; he nods back, putting the bone needle and cloth down on the barrel. "Well . . . my mum taught me about some things. Maybe I can take a look, then ask her about it," Merlin shrugs. But his brow is drawn, and he looks about as nervous as I feel. "Lead the way."

We head back to the center of town, Will wandering off to the other boys again after giving me a pointed glare, and I look around for the fiery-colored head of Foehart. The path is full; townsfolk exchanging chickens and grain, candles and cloth. Merlin keeps bumping into me when I pause. I roll my eyes at his apologetic grin, sternly dismissing the boy in my head as a buffoon.

"So why are you here?" he asks conversationally, and I try to keep a scowl off my face. More lies.

"We don't . . . really have a village, a place to settle," I try to answer truthfully, not meeting his eyes. I can still feel him look at me with sympathy, and it makes my skin crawl. "It's better, I think," I add quickly, hoping to erase that pity, "moving, finding new adventures, not sitting around sewing all day."

It works. The boy huffs, crossing his arms. "What then? Do you just walk around the Four Kingdoms with holes in your trousers?"

"No," I answer reproachfully. I give them to Yilgrid, or one of the women at the camp, I want to say. "I have my mum do it."

"Wager she can't stitch your holes now," Merlin warns, "what-with being sick and all." I glare at him, and he gives an easy grin back. So I hit him.

"OW."

And the boy looks at me like I've broke his arm or something.

"Arthur, who is this?" Foeharts voice interrupts from behind us, and I turn quickly to meet his gaze. It looks surprised, but intrigued.

"Merlin, son of Hunith," Merlin says for me, nodding with a polite smile.

"I told him how Mum's sick," I add in quickly, and Foehart's eyebrows rise for just a fraction of a second. Then it evens, his expression almost sorrowful.

"My wife has been worse and worse, with each passing sun," he says smoothly, shaking his head down toward his feet.

Merlin looks at both of us, brow furrowing. "Can I see her?" he asks quietly, and I nod. Foehart gestures over toward the covered tumbril, and Merlin follows. I can hardly look once we've approached it. When Foehart raises the cover.

The woman lies covered in lumps, purple-y and rotting-looking. Her eyes are slitted half-closed, the whites of them showing better described as gray. She looks overall more creature than human, twisted and curled in on herself in a limp, unnatural way. Blond hair matted and filthy, her person carrying a stench enough to turn any grown man's stomach. Merlin immediately takes a step back, and another when she lets out a weak cough. It sounds like she's gurgling water.

But surprisingly, appall leaves his eyes a second later. Merlin takes a hesitant step forward again, pity replacing disgust. "I've never seen anything like this," he whispers, mouth hardly moving.

Foehart parries me a hard glance before answering. "It seems as if none have. The best healer we could find told us no medicinal treatment will work. My dear Yilgrid, they say she's been . . . cursed."

I stiffen at the use of his young bride's name, who gave me a wan smile and a peck on the cheek just before we rolled the cart and its contents on our merry way. She will be waiting, maybe with fig pies, maybe with arms to wrap and comfort.

I don't want to do this anymore.

"If there is any possible way, if you know of someone who could even attempt," Foehart says, acting tired and hopeless, and I find myself disturbed at how easily the lies roll off his tongue. The way his voice breaks on the word 'attempt,' as if unable to hold back his emotion. In a way I likely will be expected to master, no matter how every dishonesty has always cut at my conscience like a knife.

Merlin glances behind us, at the unassuming movement of bodies and animals. Then he gusts out a stuttering breath and nods before approaching the dying thing, closer than I would dare dream. His hand reaches out, surprisingly steady, and I glance at Foehart in horror as Merlin places it on her bumpy forehead.

But Foehart is watching the boy, hard.

I almost miss Merlin's eyes flash, his mouth muttering what almost sounds like a prayer—if it wasn't in some guttural, earthy language, that is. I've heard it before, heard many times my father's recruits and the thick words that curl from their mouths like living things. And terror is always quick to follow, for whoever Father deems the enemy.

The split-second gold warns of great works about to be wrought—but always great works of destruction, of affliction. So when I see his eyes, fading back now to their original blue, I wait in thinly-veiled fear for what is to come.

The woman gasps, opens her eyes.

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 **A/N: And says "my HERO, gimme a kiss!" Foehart is a man with a plan, up next, and Arthur is in for more than he can probably handle. Poor thing (though I'm taking a wild guess you'll all sympathize more for Merlin, haha). Comments, thoughts, feedback and whatever else are all warmly welcomed!**

 **catherine10: Sorry to disappoint, though I hope its made clear in this chapter that Merlin is a lot more naive and trusting at this age, and Sir Foehart truly is a convincing actor. Thanks for reviewing and sharing your thoughts, I look forward to any that you have to share after this chapter!**

 **Just A Reviewer: Your review made me laugh so hard, let me tell you. I'm glad the story seems promising so far, I hope it continues to be! Your taking the time to review was really appreciated and I hope you enjoyed this new chapter.**

P.S. For the few of you still reading at this point, does anybody know trouble-shooting for getting a Cover Image to stick? The picture keeps disappearing after a while even though I save it and can see it on the fic itself time and time again. Morgana on a throne is not the right one, its my author image. GAH! So frustrating.


	3. Take Care

**3\. Take Care**

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Summary:

 _I back away a little; I can't help it. The boy, Merlin, had been smirking up at me from where he was sitting, doing his mending, just a few minutes before. With a mum and a village and a friend called Will.  
And now . . ._

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There's a moment where we're all blinking, staring as the disease fast-retreats from the woman's skin, the white of her eyes turning once again white. Merlin is gasping, hard, like he's just spent an hour running after a pig-skin in the boys' game, and Foehart's neck keeps swallowing; it bobs, again, then again as the man opens his mouth. Words seem to have dried up on his tongue.

It seems the knight didn't actually expect anything to happen.

The woman is squinting at us with surprisingly dark brown eyes, swaying as she tries to sit up a little, and Merlin moves to help her. My eyes hardly keep up the motion that follows.

Swift as a predator of the air Foehart dives forward, with a thick arm wrapping around the boy's skinny middle and a hand stuffing something into his face. Merlin stiffens in surprise, tries to wrench from the man's grasp. Only to be hoisted up into the air. His eyes widen from shock to fear, unable to see his attacker from behind. I take an instinctive step forward and his eyes lock with mine, something akin to hope flashing in them until I don't take another step. My own vision blurs out of focus a little, watching numbly as Merlin's weak kicks and hits quickly tame and slow, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he slumps and goes still. Foehart takes the rag away from the boy's face then, but it's apparently already done its job. Bile rises in my throat.

I don't want to do this anymore.

Foehart hurries to the other side of the cart, drops the limp body behind it where no one would see. It feels like the whole world should see, though I glance back behind us at the path and the few passerbys do not spare us even a glance. The woman however, whose skin every second seems to be heartening and pinking into a healthier shade, looks at me with her dark eyes in fear. She obviously has seen the display. I want to step forward again, reassure her, tell her to not scream. I don't know with what words. But something thick is blocking my throat, burning my airway and for some silly reason my eyes. Foehart rounds back again, glancing at her in clear distaste before moving toward me.

I back away a little; I can't help it. The boy, Merlin, had been smirking up at me from where he was sitting, doing his mending, just a few minutes before. With a mum and a village and a friend called Will. And now . . .

"Arthur," Foehart hisses at me, reaching down to grab me at the shoulders. I surrender to it, look down as he continues in a harsh voice, "Arthur, I need you to . . . " I brace myself for his next words.

And when they don't come, I glance up, surprised to see a softening look of concern on his face.

"You go to the boy, see if he's comfortable," he starts again in a much gentler tone, his grip loosening considerably. "We'll take him in the tumbril back."

I blanch at the change of plans. "We're taking him _with_ us?"

"Yes."

"But what about her?" I brave to ask, glancing behind him pointedly.

Foehart looks at me hard from under thick, coppery brows. "I'll take care of her. Then we need to go; move, fast and without delay."

I manage to nod, and he gives me a quick smile before letting my shoulders go. Then I'm around back, in the nook of the home and the pen where none from the main path can see. Ignoring the sound of a scuffle behind me where Foehart is as my eyes search the ground.

Merlin lies twisted, one arm bent awkwardly beneath his slight ribcage and legs tangled together. And I know just by looking he's alive; the invisible belt that's been tightening around my lungs loosens, and I take in a deep breath as I kneel beside Merlin's unconscious form. Just asleep, not dead, not dead. I know the mission isn't to kill, know it is simply to recruit. But only now that I see the slight tremor of the boy's lips, as air slides in and out, do I relax.

"Merlin?" I say softly, nudging him with my knee. He doesn't stir. I try for a put-upon laugh. "Merlin, that was almost too easy, catching you unawares like that. Do you ever pay attention?"

I don't expect an answer. Just saying it helps, keeps me focused as I bend over him to free the trapped arm. So I continue, "Muirden will be hopeless to train that out of you. In fact, he'll take one look at you and tell my father, 'That's a boy? Looks like a hatchling cricket to me.' He really does say weird things like that." I let the arm rest on his middle, moving lower to reposition his small, skinny legs.

"But you'll get your guardian first, and he'll have it worst off," I say, ignoring muffled noises behind me and surveying my work. Merlin looks peaceful now; like he decided to lay out in this corner for a quick doze. Only his brow, pulled together a little, shows any sign of distress.

I place a finger between them, against the crease of skin. "You'll be fine." It comes out too soft, too hopeful. "Don't be such a girl about it," I add quickly, trying to dispel any worry creeping to the forefront of my mind. Merlin's brow doesn't relax.

Then Foehart enters the corner of my vision, towing the newly unconscious form of the woman past me. Her bare feet drag against the clumpy earth, fingers grazing the dust. He hoists her up, letting her back rest against the side of the hut. Matted hair covers her face.

"Come, Arthur; it's time," Foehart says quickly, moving to pick up Merlin. I fling myself forward, over his sleeping form, before the man gets the chance.

"I'll do it," I say when the older man frowns, digging my hands into the boy's armpits and pulling him up. Foehart watches silently as I manage to half-hoist Merlin onto my shoulder, moving on shaky legs before placing him as gently as I can into the cart. I wait for the man's calculating gaze to turn cross, to reprimand me for what must surely be evident on my face. Defiance.

But Foehart only moves to grab for the cover, whipping it over Merlin's sleeping form, before anyone would think to second-glance.

No one does.

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 **A/N: And they're off! Goodbye little village, hello uncertain future! Hope you are all enjoying it so far. Let me know! Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing, YOU ARE AWESOME. Everyone who followed are ALSO AWESOME. Everyone who hasn't yet should totally do that. And you ghost guests . . . thanks for stopping by? Lol.**

 **catherine10: Glad you're liking it, I hope this chapter continues the trend! Thanks for your review, like previously stated, YOU'RE AWESOME.**

 **Adelxe: Yay, I'm glad the concept is working for you! Hopefully the story will eventually justify this change in Uther's character. Thank you for reviewing, it's a real treat! (YOU'RE AWESOME)**

Quick Poll, who sees for the cover image Morgana on the (HER) throne and who sees a weird, abstract, black veiny picture? I still can't get it to stick (it should be the latter)!


	4. Eyes Opened

**4\. Eyes Opened**

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Summary **:** _My stomach feels nauseous at my grip on the cloth but I ignore it, a prickle stinging my neck with the want to prove myself. Even at this boy's expense._

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We leave the village without a single farewell, moving at such a brisk pace I'm jogging to keep up with the cart. The forest cover eases Foehart somewhat—he settles for a steady walk, eyes piercing through the trees and brush for any sign of a foe. But we are not ambushed, not followed.

Merlin's small, young, a village boy, forgotten much quicker than thought of. No one will come searching as far as we will take him.

It's two days journey, night settling in as quickly as the ache in my feet. And in my head, and in my chest. In the morning, more of Father's men will meet us for the remaining trip. And by tomorrow night Merlin will join the other new recruits, and Foehart will report to my father, and Yilgrid will have a warm dinner waiting.

Dinner tonight is cold. The night is even colder, Autumn already giving in to the bite of a new season. When Foehart passes me a dry, hardened piece of bread he says in a low voice, "We'll need to put him back to sleep soon. It will wear off, and when it does I need you."

I swallow, keeping the uneasiness in my head checked. "What should I do?"

"Keep him warm, and when he starts to wake, give him a drink. Then this," Foehart pulls out a ragged cloth, pressing it into my hand. "It'll be easier this time—he won't be able to fight much."

I stare down at the unassuming rag for the rest of the meal, its pungent scent venting to my nose already.

"He healed that woman," Foehart says quite suddenly, looking ahead into the dark forest. I don't know what to answer. "Healed her, in a moment. With hardly more than a thought." His voice is tense but—excited? I look at him and can't tell. "At most I hoped his eyes would flash, but." Foehart's eyes flash to mine then, wide and intense. "The mission we were sent on had to be abandoned. This boy—he's special, Arthur. Your father will understand."

He says nothing more, just breaks his own piece of bread in half and pinches salt between every bite.

After dinner the tree frogs are creaking and the crickets are keening out a harsh lullaby. I lay my thick mat on the chilled ground, shivering under the cool gaze of the stars.

I start when Foehart drops the boy and a water skin next to him, sitting up with a wrench that aches in my back. "Why'd you do that?" I demand, tense. Foehart glances over his shoulder with a quick, "Keep him warm." The tightening in my chest lessens a little as I understand; I slip into my coverlet, pulling Merlin by his bony wrist to lay nudged against me. For a minute I stay achingly still, noticing with surprise as I start getting a little warmer.

Then Merlin stirs.

My mouth goes dry, watching in horror as he shifts, moving till he's on his other side, breath puffing in my face. I stare in distress, frozen for minutes as the boy breathes in and out.

Then, just as I start to relax again, his eyes slip open a crack.

Mechanically I grab for the water skin behind me, sitting up and ignoring the growing confusion on the boy's face as he wakes. "Water?" I offer, and when he just looks at it, patience seems to be a moot point.

I scoot so I can sit and prop up his head on my lap, his bleary face staring up at me. Then he eyes the water skin I'm pressing to his lips, and, mercy of mercies, drinks. Guzzles it down and takes the skin from me, in fact, like he's been deprived of the necessity much longer than a day. His eyes, bright even in their drugged haze, don't stray from mine, and I feel something soften in my gut.

But behind us Foehart is approaching, the soft sounds of his footsteps nearing. He is watching, assessing. I can feel it on my back as I obey his orders, letting Merlin drink and simultaneously slipping the rag out of my pocket. My stomach feels nauseous at my grip on the cloth but I ignore it, a prickle stinging at my neck with the want to prove myself. Even at this boy's expense.

Eventually there is nothing left and he drops the empty skin next to him, slowly starting to sit up. I tense, ready with the rag.

A heavy hand on my shoulder stops me. "Wait," Foehart's voice commands, and I look up at him in confusion. But his eyes are on Merlin. "Get him up. Have it ready, but." Foehart just finishes with a nod. I tuck the rag back in my pocket.

Merlin's eyes are half-closing again, and I have to shake his shoulders before he looks coherent again. Then I'm pulling him by the arms, murmuring, "You need to stand," as he blinks up at me. When the boy finally is, I throw an arm around his waist to keep his swaying limbs from immediately collapsing.

"Wha . . . wha . . .?" He mumbles, obviously delirious. I don't know how to answer the confusion in his eyes.

"Lead him a bit away, let him relieve himself," Foehart says in a soft voice, though Merlin probably wouldn't hear him anyway. "But keep your eye on him."

With a curt nod I whisper to Merlin, "We have to walk now," and he manages to stumble with me a dozen paces, a little outside the campsite to a thick patch of brush and tree. Just as I relent from moving the boy collapses at my feet, groaning into the soft moss that covers the ground.

" _Mer_ lin," I hiss, unexplainably edgy. A frantic part of me is worried, scared out of my mind he won't get back up. "Merlin, what are you crying like a girl for?" I wait for an answer, anything from a groan to a curse against me—a sign to tell that all is well. No answer comes. My heart drops, my mind chanting silently, _He's not dead, he's not dead_. He isn't moving at all anymore. My feet feel rooted to the spot.

But then Merlin looks up, face twisted in a half-hearted glare.

I bite back a relieved smile.

* * *

 **A/N: One of my shorter chapters, though it leads up to a rather long one. Thank you all for your support :) I love hearing what you think of it so far, don't be afraid to let me know (that includes you, ghost guests)! Also I hope everyone has a great day and that their life is going well. I feel right cheery of late, and I wish my good fortune to be extended upon you all!**


	5. Disillusioned

**5\. Disillusioned**

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Summary: _Merlin looks much more awake; I can feel his eyes glancing at me, again and again. "Where am I?" he whispers.  
_ _"The Forest of Ascetir," I answer after a moment. "Or near there."_

* * *

"You need to get up."

He doesn't answer. I wait for a minute, praying for the boy to please just stand, _please_ just do as I say. Foehart is not a harsh man, but he can be a stern one. For a reason I can't explicate even to myself, I don't want him to have to take over.

"What's going on?" Merlin's voice is wrecked, more of a croak, body still hunched over on hands and knees. "I feel, I feel like . . . "

I grimace at the sound of Merlin heaving up all the water I've just given him, gasping between each retch. I can see the small of his back shaking from the effort, and I resist the urge to place a hand there for comfort. Worrying and wondering if he's starting to remember, beginning to recall the events of this morning.

Finally his body relents, and Merlin curls up right next to the mess, clutching his stomach.

"Merlin," I say, and when he doesn't answer, I say more harshly, " _Merlin_. Merlin, we don't have time for delay. Certainly no time for you to bellyache and complain. You need to get up, take a piss quick and whatever else before Sir Foehart comes over here to see what's taking so long."

He looks up at me blearily, and with a great sigh I reach down and grab for hands—I find some, though one is slick with something I don't want to think about—pulling him up once again. I guide him to the moss-covered tree near us, letting him lean against it for a moment. "Go ahead," I say when Merlin looks at me dubiously. "I can't turn my back." Not even if the soon-to-be recruit looks like he can hardly stand, much less run.

'Never trust an unbound recruit,' my father has said. Merlin certainly isn't bound, not in the physical sense _or_ in the way my father was referring. But it's been said without control, void of a guardian with humanity to subdue them, they're inhuman: loveless, freakish, contradictory to anything natural—

Though it seems the way they piss is pretty normal.

Eventually the deed is done and we make to head back, my arm still supporting him. Merlin looks much more awake; I can feel his eyes glancing at me, again and again.

"Where am I?" he whispers.

We are right outside the campsite, but his question pulls me up short. "The Forest of Ascetir," I answer after a moment. "Or near there."

" _Why?_ "

That I don't answer.

I can feel Merlin stiffen against me as we reach the cart and Foehart; his eyes dart between the man and the tumbril, understanding and recollection seeming to blow over him like a cold chill. But he says nothing as we reach my bedroll, ignoring Foehart as he nears us.

"Everything taken care of?" the man asks me, and I nod, looking somewhere past him. I feel rather numb, thinking of what we've done. Of why Merlin is here, with us as we return. This wasn't the mission.

I don't want to do this anymore.

But then I can't help but see, Foehart seems almost proud as he nods back. Like, though he is going against direct orders from my father to only scope out possible recruits, the knight expects great reward for our efforts. He crouches low, looking at Merlin's bowed head. There's an eager light in his eyes, almost a hunger. "Merlin." The boy says nothing, but it doesn't seem to deter Foehart. He just shuffles a little closer. "Merlin. That's your name?"

Merlin raises his head. His eyes are surprisingly hard as he says, "I want to go home."

Foehart's expression doesn't waver. He continues, "How long have you had these powers, son? Who taught you?"

"What do you want?" Merlin's gaze moves from Foehart to me, shifting his arm off my shoulder. His eyes seem to soften to confusion as he stares at me, and guilt rises up my throat.

"I . . ." I turn to Foehart for an answer.

The knight stands slowly, and Merlin stares down at his boots as Foehart says, "That largely depends, son. Could you show me a little more of what you can do?"

"Take me back."

Foehart puts a hand on the boy's shoulder, making him flinch, but not raise his head. "Be a man about this. Let's negotiate. You show me what you can do, and we'll talk about we can do."

Merlin wrenches away from the knight's grip, spitting out a " _No._ " I can see Foehart's impatient frown begin to show from around his red beard, his hand less gently this time grabbing at Merlin's arm.

" _Yes._ Now, all I want is-"

Merlin's head snaps up, eyes glowing gold.

I feel my blood freeze in the next moment, as he stares Foehart into a similarly frozen state. But this is what the knight asked for. The peasant has transformed: from a dirty boy to an unearthly being, all power and no feeling. The two rings of fire brighten in intensity, then, searing molten as Merlin opens his mouth and releases an ear-splitting cry—

"AAAAA _AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH_!"

Then it's like a moving stone wall has crashed into me. I'm flung into the air, hard onto the cold ground. My head hits the hard earth, the harsh impact knocking the breath from me and swimming stars into my vision. My body aches like I've been run over by a stampede of horses—like a mountain has crashed on top of me.

Great works of terror. _Magic._

* * *

 **A/N: I lied, its actually next chapter that is long. But anyway, go BAMF!Merlin, woot woot! Blowing his captors off their feet! He's totally free now, right guys? Riiiight? Lol. I'm an evil person at heart, I guess. Let me know what you think, friends!**

 **Guest: Thanks so much, I'm glad you think so! Stopping is not in my plans, no worries there. Thank you for reviewing, it means a lot :)**

 **catherine10: Sorry to report, this is ALL Arthur POV. I'm not going to switch. I'm a bit obliged to limited POVs where the reader has to take clues out of the character's one limited perspective, its more of a challenge and its more fun! My post-canon fic 'Still A Secret' has changing perspectives though, if you want to give that one a try!**

 **Just A Reviewer: 'Dobby, SHUT UP!' Just kidding, love you Dobby, lol. Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying reading and yes, Arthur does have a tiny little flame of rebellion in him already! That's just Arthur for ya, haha. I'm glad my good fortune has been successfully transferred! Thank you for your review, I really appreciate the time you took to do so :)**


	6. Intent

**6\. Intent**

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Summary: _I kick with my feet to scoot away from the boy, swallowing the sobs that are hitching my lungs. Closing my eyes and curling on the chilled ground, not able to bear the sight of what I've done or the sight a dozen paces away—of what Merlin's done._

* * *

"Sorry, sorry," I hear distantly, a hand patting my face. Someone is prodding me, looking for injuries. They gasp, discovering whatever is trickling down my neck, and fingers knead through my scalp trying to find it. I manage a groan at the hot prick of pain when they do.

The sound of a strange tongue is then followed by an even stranger warming sensation, a prickling in my skull. My eyes finally clear, eventually landing on an extremely disheveled Merlin. Bright moonlight harshly illuminates the planes of his face—he looks exhausted.

"I didn't mean it to . . . I didn't want _you_ to be . . . "

He keeps mumbling, looking panicked, and I sit up with some effort. My gaze wanders of its own accord, stomach clenching as it finds the completely still form of Foehart lying near the cart. "Sir Foehart—?" I manage to croak out, and Merlin says nothing. He looks down at his bloody hand, worrying at his lip.

It's my blood, I realize. He hurt me, and then he healed me.

We both sit there for a moment, Merlin's breath heavy like it was after he healed the woman, and I wonder why he doesn't run. Perhaps he really didn't mean to?—or perhaps he's waiting to get his strength back. His strength back, to—to what? Go back to his mum, his village . . . finish the job and kill us both?

Foehart is lying there, perhaps dead on the ground, all thanks to a dirty peasant who happens to look a more like an underfed child than a deadly killer. I've let myself be deceived, I realize. Let myself see what is merely exterior, when in fact: Merlin is the rat in the sea of mice.

I pounce on him, using my weight to pin his body to the ground. He gasps as the breath is knocked from him, blinking at me in surprise. But a second later, arms start clawing at my arms with the zeal of some wild animal, kicking and thrashing. I can feel the skin give, the sharp sting on my arms as I wrestle to stay on his bucking form and pin down his wrists.

But then I have. Merlin is pinned down, arms trapped above his head. There's a moment when we're just staring at one another, my hold taut and his body completely still. And this can't be right, a pang of regret shaking through every one of my straining limbs—but my father's face, cold and indifferent, is swimming in my vision. So I pull out the rag from the pocket of my jacket with my free hand. Ignore that look of betrayal flashing in the sorcerer's eyes, try instead to imagine my father's face, changed to a look of approval.

Merlin's cries are muffled as I stuff the rag in his face. And this time I don't watch but _feel_ his writhing form, already exhausted and spent, as it struggles and arches feebly. The night's silence is broken only by the scraping of the boy's heels against the ground, by my harsh breathing and his grunts of exertion. I ignore the stabbing pain in my skull that can't just be from my injury, biting my lip to the bleeding point as too quickly Merlin slackens, eyes rolling till only the whites show. His body is still.

I'm breathing hard—though it really wasn't much of a fight— and immediately jump away. My stomach turns upon looking at Merlin, deathly still in front of me, bile rising in my throat. I kick with my feet to scoot away from the boy, swallowing the sobs that are hitching my lungs. Closing my eyes and curling on the chilled ground, not able to bear the sight of what I've done or the sight a dozen paces away—of what Merlin's done.

The night is deathly still now—as if the frogs and crickets have been stunned into silence. I don't dare to see how the stars have fared, squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it aches. But when I finally do chance a look it's morning; my eyes feel puffy, my face sticky as I rub at it. Merlin lies near, motionless.

Some noise has woken me, I remember, unidentifiable until I hear it again. A horse's whinny, the sound of pattering hooves moving closer. Heavy footsteps coming nearer.

"Arthur!"

My mind starts at the familiar voice, vision focusing enough to see Leon's worried face looking down at me. It quickly brightens as we lock eyes, and he calls behind him, "He's alive!"

I watch him step back, propping myself up with an arm and taking in the changed campsite. The tall shrubbery from the night before is strangely flattened—like a stampede of animals came through and leveled everything. Four saddled horses stand near, Leon's father Jethro looking up from where he leans over Foehart. His recruit, Freya, is just next to him.

"Arthur?" Jethro's face is pinched with grief, shoulders heavy as he stands. "What happened?"

I hesitate, risking a glance at Merlin. He's splayed on the ground, unconscious, much how I left him.

Leon and Jethro follow my gaze, and both immediately tense as their eyes find the boy. Merlin must have gone unnoticed till now, for Leon immediately draws out his sword. He glances at me in confusion, however; I can see in his eyes what I see myself—an innocent, gawk-ish boy, asleep on the grass.

"Arthur, what happened?" Jethro presses, and I make myself fully sit up. Something inside me winds up, twists in fear.

Not for myself.

"We went to the village," I start, trying to patch the pieces of memory together. "Sir Foehart had been investigating for any rumors. . . "

"But you were found out?" Jethro supplies. I shake my head.

"No. We left with—with _him_ ," I jerk my head in Merlin's direction, "and no one noticed."

Leon and Jethro exchange a glance. "Your mission was to find, not to retrieve," Leon tells me, brow furrowed. "What made Sir Foehart—" He cuts off, eyes downcast. A mournful air about the both of them.

"Is he—he—" The word dries up in my mouth.

Jethro shakes his head. "He breathes, but won't wake. I fear . . . I fear for him."

"Were you ambushed?" Leon asks.

"No." I let out a harsh breath, steeling myself for the truth. "Mer—the recruit. He, he tried to get away."

" _He_ did this?" Jethro replies, incredulous as he waves his arm between me and Foehart, the whole flattened state of the premises in general.

Leon stalks toward the unconscious boy, his sword already half-lifted. The recruit girl, quiet till now, lets out a small gasp.

And I can't let him. "I will dispose of this thing immediately—"

"No. _STOP_!"

They all turn to stare at me.

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaaand that's how Merlin still didn't get away. Because, as theeternaldaylightingranger pointed out in a review a little bit ago, Merlin is too good for this world (and it can be established now that I am, in fact, evil). Love to hear your thoughts on this update!**

 **catherine10: Good, I"m glad you like it anyway, haha! And I hope you enjoyed this chapter - thanks for taking the time to review :)**


	7. Like Blood

**7\. Like Blood**

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Summary: _I give my best reassuring smile, ripping my eyes from the horse next to me. The one that carries the still form of Merlin on its back._

* * *

"We, we can't just, _kill_ him." My heart is thumping against my rib cage, hard and fast with fear. Leon lowers his sword a little, looking at me with concerned eyes. "He's important. Sir Foehart knew that."

"Important how?" Jethro's voice is curt and short.

"He told me—he said that the boy healed the woman with barely a thought, like it was nothing. He is powerful, unlike anything we've ever seen." I'm grasping at straws and I know it, but Jethro looks curious, if not assured. Freya looks sickly pale.

" _Healed_ her?" Leon repeats, unbelieving. "The Lady herself enchanted the woman—she could not have been cured."

My mouth feels as parched as a desert, dried up as I realize some of Foehart's words to Merlin were not entirely fabricated: the dying woman _had_ been cursed. "But if she was—if the boy managed to undo . . . " Jethro stops, looks at Merlin with renewed interest.

"Master, perhaps you should just leave him here," The recruit girl surprisingly speaks up and grabs her guardian's arm, voice shaky but firm.

Jethro backhands her cheek. "Know your place, girl." She shrinks, clutching her face, silent.

"Either we kill him, or take him with us," Leon reasons. "There are no other options."

"Leon, put the boy on one of the horses," Jethro instructs while still glaring at his recruit, gesturing to Merlin. Then he goes back to Foehart and looks at me, saying, "Arthur, help me with his legs."

Gently I help him lift Foehart, moving to put the unconscious man into the cart. I glance at Foehart's lulling face, his skin deathly pale against the starch red of his beard. There's hardly any movement to signal the breath bating in and out through his lips.

Merlin is hoisted by Leon over one of the saddles, on his belly, looking about as much alive. "We'll return to Ascetir and let Uther decide his fate." Jethro's lips press into a grim line.

I feel cold all over, and not just from sleeping exposed to the chilled night air.

When we begin the rest of the journey it's at a much slower pace, Freya struggling to push Foehart's weight in the cart after the first few hours. Leon and Jethro say nothing, though Leon glances back at me worriedly every now and then. I give my best reassuring smile, ripping my eyes from the horse next to me. The one that carries the still form of Merlin on its back.

"How was the mission?" Leon asks when we pause for a drink at the small river, the one that leads all the way to the edge of camp. I'm running my hands through the water, watching as the dirt flecks off. "I know, with Sir Foehart's condition, it hasn't ended particularly well. But—"

"Was it as thrilling as you said?" I muster a half-grin, and he grins back.

Leon is three years my senior, an avid squire of two years and as many years from knighthood. I can remember when he returned from his first mission—somber but a bit smug, and most of all confident as a multitude of specially-crafted swords as well as their maker were unloaded and presented to my father—how he later took me aside and shared every detail. The blacksmith and his daughter, who'd been consorting with sorcerers to make the weapons. Now turned to our side, however unwilling. His eyes had lit up, his had voice rose, his hands had moved dramatically through the tale.

"It was . . . overwhelming," I admit now, staring down at my hands as I lift them and the water drip, drips off the tips. "Since, I haven't, you know—" _Ever traveled from Ascetir before_. Though the actual location of my father's forces spreads across much of what once lay under the protection of Camelot, I have never traveled through the expanse of his influence. Definitely never to the front line, where he spends nine months out of twelve every year. The farthest I've journeyed is to the Darkling Woods, and only when sharing Foehart's saddle in an all-out sprint from the camp to safety. That was back when the permanency of my father's influence was still questioned—when King Cenred 's forces poured from the old border like a bursting dam to challenge such a claim. Ascetir was the front line then; I spent half of my eighth and all of my ninth year in the Darkling Woods, waiting to hear word of victory or surrender.

"Too bad the rumors turned out to be a skinny peasant," Leon sighs, glancing behind me. I turn to look as well, at Merlin's draped form over the horse.

"A _stinking_ peasant," I agree, wafting the air in front of my nose. Leon laughs. "They were all like that, though. Mostly, Sir Foehart spoke with them, slowly drawing out information. Once we knew it was 'Hunith's boy,' as they said, he had me go looking as well."

"Any fighting?" Leon raises his eyebrows, and I go for a shrug and a slight, cocky smile. It has the desired effect—the older boy punches me in the shoulder, with a very approving nod, before ducking to drink the river water. I follow in suit, pulling out a cloth to wipe my face with.

 _No fighting to be proud of_ —just pinning down an already-exhausted boy with a surprise-attack, right after he'd barely used the last of his energy from almost killing me, healing me. I feel the small bump at the back of my head, where a deep gash should be, and know.

The red cloth turns darker as I hold it in the water, reminding me of blood.

When Jethro signals us to head back, I duck the cloth in the water once more, pulling it out sopping, and head quickly over. Ignoring Leon's inquisitive eyes on me, I tug Merlin down from the horse, settling to the ground with his back on my chest and his head on my shoulder. Squeezing his slack mouth open as quickly as I can with one hand. The other wrings out the moisture from the cloth, letting it drip past his lips.

It's a gamble, whether or not Merlin will swallow, and I sigh when it seems he does and slowly wring out the rest. This has to be damaging—intoxicated and knocked out twice over with no food and barely any water. Especially as it's unlikely any liquid escaped his retching, just last night. I put a hand on his forehead, his neck, unsurprised to feel the feverish heat radiating off.

So when I've hoisted him back over the horse, holding back a grimace as the softest of groans escapes the boy's lips, I tie the damp red cloth around his neck. Only able to hope it will help cool the fever.

"Is he all right?" Leon asks a bit later, once we're mounted and on our way again. Bemused concern flickers on his face.

"If he is now, he won't be soon," I answer.

We spend the remainder of the journey in silence.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading!

A Writer: I don't think I've been honored with this kind of review before. As I'm a busy person with little love for intense editing, I don't really analyze my writing when it comes to fanfiction beyond seeing how I grow from start to finish. But I'll keep your mentions of my writing flaws noted when writing actual fiction, as I do like to know where to improve. As far as Arthur's characterization goes, from where Arthur is now to where he will stand at the end of the story I've found him adequately changed and dynamic, at least for my taste, and have made adjustments in the past in order for this to be prevalent to the reader since my first draft. That is more what my concern is, with fanfiction: getting the characterization and plot where it needs to be. Hopefully that will come through on the reader's end. I guess we'll see. I appreciate the time you took to review, especially as it sounds like you have many things you could be doing instead, and hope you enjoyed this new chapter.

catherine10: But that would be spoiling! Haha at this point they're really too young as well, so romance won't be a big focus. Thanks for reviewing!

Just A Reviewer: lol I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and I hope theeternaldaylightingranger sees your flattering comment! And let me get this straight: I'm Voldemort, you're Dobby and Merlin is Harry? Is that how this works? I'm not sure whether to be flattered myself, haha. Thank you for reviewing, it means a lot!


	8. Ill Tidings

**8\. Ill Tidings**

* * *

Summary: _I lean further toward the tent wall, straining to hear, but Gaius says nothing else. As if the silence has been stunned out of him._

* * *

We reach the outer ring of sentries by midday. Jethro takes the lead of our small group as one of them approaches, saluting.

"Sir Jethro. Leon, Arthur," the man nods. "Is Sir Foehart delayed?"

"No, Helton, we come in haste; Foehart has been gravely injured."

Helton's eyes widen as he recognizes the unconscious knight in the cart—he turns on his heel, thundering, "Inform the physician!"

His recruit, a young man about Leon's age, nods from where he's been standing behind Helton, head bowed. He speaks a single, foreign-sounding word, eyes unfocused from where they stare ahead. Then they burn gold, and Helton ushers us to move forward into the outskirts of camp.

"Muirden has been informed," he says to Helton as I ride past him, eyes blinking back to a normal shade. "They will be ready."

We ride past another sight I rarely see-the soldiers of lower status, training or eating rations or preparing for the night just outside their humble tents. They have all come back from the front line early, out of injury or sickness.

I ignore their eyes on me.

We reach the inner circle half an hour later, knights and serfs alike rushing to meet our company. Muirden, the recruit the physician Gaius is guardian over, bows his head to Sir Jethro as he approaches. "Yilgrid has been summoned for, the right supplies called for and my master sent for to await your arrival."

"Very good. I'll also need one of your kind to escort this away to be subdued. If Uther doesn't kill it, he may be recruiting again." Muirden bows his head again, shaggy curls obscuring his eyes, and he moves forward to take the reigns of the horse Merlin is sprung over.

They're in my hands. "You're taking him to Morgana, correct?" I say, gripping the leather tightly. I can feel the set of both Leon and Jethro's eyes on my back. Muirden smiles a very thin, see-through grin, nodding and holding out a hand for them. I let him have it, watching with growing dread as Muirden leads the horse away from our party.

Would it have been better to let Leon kill the boy?

By the time we reach the infirmary tent Muirden is already there, Merlin gone and Gaius standing stalwartly outside its door. I walk in, helping Jethro and Leon lay Foehart carefully down on the main table. And then get shooed out the door almost immediately by Muirden, who pushes me with bony prods of his fingers.

"Go play with your sticks, little dung beetle," he hisses, and I throw him a rude gesture as the tent door flaps closed. There's a bit of quiet, a rustling of clothing and clinking of supplies as Gaius no doubt examines Foehart's unconscious form. I edge closer, just a hair's breadth from the heavy canvas wall. Gaius eventually speaks, and though his heavy voice is muted now from the outside, I make out most of it:

" . . . inflammation of the brain."

"Easily fixed," Muirden's voice is silky now.

"But not just," Gaius's tone cautions. "He's barely breathing, and only after one night—lift up his shirt, would you—I think there might be . . . "

I lean further toward the tent wall, straining to hear, but Gaius says nothing else. As if the silence has been stunned out of him.

"Arthur, you shouldn't be here," a soft, almost musical voice says from behind me. I turn, and Foehart's youthful wife Yilgrid has come, looking tired and worried. But I've often seen such an expression aging her, and instinctively I know how to combat it—I rush to her, arms wide, immediately feeling warmth return to what's been cold inside me as she squeezes back. When I pull away, it's with satisfaction; she's smiling.

"I've missed you," Yilgrid tells me, tapping on my nose once like she often does. Though it's a bit strange—for months she's had to reach a little ways up, not down, to do so. "I'm so glad you're alright."

"I'm sorry," I say immediately, thinking of Foehart just inside the tent. "I'm sorry, I—" _Should have done_ _something_. Not curl up on the ground and lie there pathetically, too ashamed to do anything but sleep away the horrors of the night.

"Yilgrid," comes Gaius's somber voice, of whom seems to have exited the tent. He's frowning deeply at Yilgrid with his hands clasped in front of him, a sure sign of bad news.

"There is . . . little, we can do."

He bows his head then, respectfully silent as tears immediately brim in the young woman's eyes.

"What can you mean, Gaius?" she demands, however, tone shaky but harsh. "What has been done to him? Or to help him?"

"His injuries are fatal," Gaius explains somberly. "Whoever attacked must have enough raw power to level half this camp. There is no chance. His ribcage, milady. . . "

"Let me see," Yilgrid says through her teeth, cheeks shiny and wet. Gaius nods, and when I start to follow them in, it is her arms this time to stop me. "This is not for you to see, Arthur," she says, squeezing one of my shoulders. Her brown eyes are soft and shiny. "Please, go back and talk with your father. I'm sure Lord Uther's worried about you as well, with such ill tidings." I nod, giving what I hope is a reassuring smile before the tent door flaps in front of her.

My father doesn't look worried. The council tent, one of the most extravagant and sturdy structures just next to my father's bedchambers themselves, rests at the heart of Ascetir currently and takes another ten minutes or so to get to—and when I do, pushing my way through greetings and concerned looks to the entrance, it's with just enough noise that my father lifts his head.

Lord Uther raises his eyebrows. "Soldier. Finally. What has kept you? Why have you waited so long to report the failure or success of the mission?"

I swallow at the disappointed irritation in his voice. "Apologies, sir. It's Sir Foehart's condition, I was just . . . " His inquisitive stare silences me.

"If Sir Foehart cannot report, the duty surely falls to you, does it not?"

I breathe shortly through my nose. "Yes, sir."

"And, especially this being your first mission, would it not be wise to follow protocol, to the letter?"

"Yes, sir." I lower my eyes. "Apologies again, sir."

He grunts, picks up a goblet and sips at it for a moment.

"Very well," he acquiesces, down into his goblet disinterestedly. "You may begin. Report, in short detail." Then his eyes find mine.

"Tell me what has happened."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I almost forgot to post this one today, but I eventually remembered. I didn't have time to respond to your reviews though, sorry about that! Still as a general thank you, I appreciate you for doing so. For those curious, yes I'm aware 'Jethro' was a character Colin Morgan played and no, this character bears no semblance to that character besides the name. This guy is actually a pretty big hater.**


	9. Scape Boar

**9\. Scape Boar**

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Summary: _My courage seems to fail as Uther Pendragon, warlord and commander, invader and father, walks to stand in front of me. His smile has vanished._

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My father does not speak a word as I relate our journey to the village, our capture of Merlin, and last night. Something in his eyes, though, warn he is impatient to get to the matter at heart. Word had to have reached him by now of Foehart's state, after all. And I almost have reached the event concerning Merlin's blast of power when a telling sound of entrance comes from behind me. I glance back, pausing my report, and note that Jethro followed by Leon followed by the recruit girl Freya have all sidled into the tent, leaning against the back.

"Is there an update?" Uther asks, and Jethro nods.

"Yes, my lord. Morgana has done the necessary—the new recruit is all compliance."

I swallow, knowing the true meaning of his words. Placed under temporary influence, by way of a poppet ritual, draining all the power from him into another. Into an already bound recruit, who could not use it if they wanted to.

"New recruit is not proper, too decent a name for the killer," Uther apprehends harshly, slamming his fist against the worn mapping table. Freya jumps, slightly. Then his livid face turns on me. "I grow tired of your vague report. This was not your instruction, Soldier, you knew that, _Foehart_ most certainly did. I don't understand why you've brought it this far in the first place—"

"My lord," I interrupt, knowing with a strangely subdued foreboding that this interruption might cost me. But the knowledge cannot hold my tongue. "If this is about the boy, it would be counter-productive to kill him. Foehart almost died trying to get him here. He is too valuable—even weighing in the accident."

" _Accident?"_ Uther repeats incredulously.

"Yes," I say hurriedly, "I have not yet finished the report. After he and I returned to Sir Foehart, the—there was, that is, a strange noise. A—a boar, my lord. The boy panicked—his mental capacity is a bit lacking to begin with, sir, but he'd just barely started to gain his senses . . . " I cannot seem to get anything else out, the blatant lie constricting my throat. Lord Uther blinks at me, the second of silence turning into many.

I'm done for.

"When he sent a wave of force through their camp," Leon jumps in, nodding. I try to keep my mouth from dropping agape, whilst silently wishing my friend every blessing I know for this. "When we arrived, only the trees were left standing. The bushes, grass, vines—it was all leveled to the ground." His eyes lock with mine, understanding passing between us.

"And the boar?" my father inquires.

"We saw no dead boar," Jethro shakes his head.

"I forgot to mention it," I argue, and when my father doesn't answer, I feel myself getting desperate. "An _accident_ , I swear, sir—" I almost plead, stopping when he raises a hand for silence.

We all wait with heads slightly bowed, Jethro almost disinterestedly, Leon and I nervously, Freya looking on the verge of panic.

"It appears," he starts slowly after some time, looking down at his maps—and my head snaps up, heart beating in anticipation—"We've missed out on a good supper tonight."

Then he cracks a grim smile, and I realize with a faint heart that my father's just made a jest.

Leon and Jethro, the perfect subjects, immediately chortle and snort in near unison—I join in a little at the end, once I've overcome the shock. Lord Uther looks up at us, smiles a little wider.

"Thank you, Leon, Sir Jethro," he nods at them, a signal to go. All three bow deeply and duck out, Leon throwing me an encouraging glance over his shoulder.

I need it; my courage seems to fail as Uther Pendragon, warlord and commander, invader and father, walks to stand in front of me. His smile has vanished.

"You have strict orders for the remainder of the day, Soldier. Stand post for Gaius, direct and fulfill his every need till supper—and report to me when there is any change. I will decide the fate of that peasant in the morning."

I nod briskly, turning on my heel to go.

"And Arthur?" I almost flinch at the use of my name; his voice has changed drastically from tight to heavy, almost somber. "Make sure Yilgrid is . . . comfortable, looked-after. That is all."

I nod without turning, hurrying out of the council tent.

Most of the day I then spend with Yilgrid, whose eyes eventually dry but remain red and puffy as we wait. It's not the most comfortable position, leaning against her knees where she sits outside Gaius's tent on a tree stump. Her hands have been carding through my hair, much too long to still be looking for knitters, but I don't have the heart to say so. The action, a weekly occurrence, seems to calm her. I glance up every so often; her eyes never stray from the tent door.

Its nearly supper, and my stomach is lowly complaining about missing meals, when Morgana passes us. A common occurrence—we see each other daily, though I haven't said so much as a word to her in three years—if not for the person whose wrist she's lightly tugging along, looking anxious. My eyes travel along the arm, up the shoulder to Merlin's face. It's drawn, tired—drugged, almost.

Yilgrid's hands by now have stilled in my hair, so I don't even think before bounding to my feet, moving in front of Morgana's path. The shock of me acknowledging her presence for once doesn't last long. Her wide eyes narrow to glare at me frostily, and when I don't move, she puts a hand on her hip.

"Arthur, I don't have time for teasing," she says, voice patronizing, and I attempt to keep my eyes from moving to Merlin behind her. He hasn't noticed my presence; the boy still stands there, listlessly.

I poke him in the arm and he doesn't even blink. "What have you done to him?" I turn to accuse, and Morgana rolls her eyes.

"What has to be done to _every_ recruit before they're bound," she explains in an irritated voice, though I can see the annoyance isn't completely sincere.

And I know—but never like this. "Merlin?" He doesn't respond.

Morgana's eyes glance at him then, like something's worrying her. When they flicker back to me, I give what I hope is a reassuring nod. "It's not supposed to . . . it's never done this to anyone," she admits in that concerned, girly voice she sometimes has. Merlin's eyes are dull, half-open; his breath looks shallow, skin sallow and grey.

"Do you think—?"

"I've orders, Arthur." Morgana sounds reluctant, but when she moves to pass me, I let her. "I have to take him."

"Where to?" I ask the back of her, and her eyes are tight when she turns her head.

"To the Lady," she says, and then tugs Merlin around a tent, out of sight.

I shudder. _Nimueh._

* * *

 **A/N: Cool. So, stuff is happening, Uther has yet to decide Merlin's fate, and Foehart remains at the cusp of death. How do you all think it will turn out, hmm? What do you think of Uther? Thank you to all who reviewed, I was again too busy to respond individually and I apologize for that! I'd still love to hear your thoughts on this chapter :)**

 **At one point I accidentally posted Chapter 7 again insteaf of 9, so if you saw that please feel free to laugh at me. I sure am. Also, I'm taking a short break, as I'm spending this coming week with my family and don't want to worry about responding to you all or forgetting to upload a new chapter. My next update will be a week from now, on the 30th :) Have a great week friends!**


	10. Sly Looks

**10\. Sly Looks**

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Summary: _It's strangely quiet; Foehart is not there to take the lion's share of malmsey, Yilgrid not near to slap his arm when he says something indecent. Everyone sips their mead quietly, solemnly._

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"Who was that?"

Yilgrid is staring blearily after the two, face drawn but tight with confusion.

I know she doesn't mean Morgana—but I hesitate. It won't be pleasant, for anyone, if the already-mourning wife finds out. Still, I find myself saying, "The new recruit," anyway, unable to lie to her.

"You mean . . ." she trails off, confusion etching even tighter into the premature lines on her face.

And I know what it looks like—Merlin, the scrawny half-baked peasant, who can't be older than 12 really—how impossible it seems that Foehart met his end at this boy's hands.

"It was an accident," I repeat myself dumbly. "He—he's an idiot."

She just stares after them, though they're both long gone, face blank until Gaius comes out of the tent. We both start, turning to him in a rush. Eager of good news, but anxious for any.

By his face, I already know. "His state—is critical. I think it best, milady, if you stay with him now. Till—harrumph." Gaius clears his throat noisily, looking down.

Yilgrid nods once, then again, and keeps nodding as she stagger, past us both inside. I make to follow—and get stopped _again_ , this time by Gaius's gentle arm.

" _Gaius_ ," I protest, stomach sinking.

He grabs my shoulder, looks at me with the faintest smile. "Now is not the time. Go, off to supper with you." He claps his hand down again in a friendly way, ushering me the opposite direction. "Best keep up your strength. If I think it is soon, I will send Muirden for you."

I walk towards the communal campfire grudgingly at first, though my stomach is thanking Gaius the moment I'm hit with the scent of thick gravy and fresh bread in the cool, musky air. Audrey the cook is already handing out bowls to a long line, though when I pass she quickly stops to serve me first. With a chunk of bread and bowl I move to sit at the higher ranking of seats not far from the sky-reaching fire, under the canopy where my father waits.

"Soldier," he nods when I take my place, busy scraping the remnants of his gravy off the bowl. Nimueh kneels at his feet, as always, though she's looking uncommonly pleased with herself tonight. Usually her vivid red lips are curled into their trade-mark scowl, not the faintest of smirks.

"My lord," I answer and quickly dip my bread in the gravy, not going five minutes before I'm in need of another course.

Audrey comes by this time, the rest of the pot always reserved for the higher-ups. Jethro, with Freya at his feet, and the other knights dine with us, Leon just outside of the canopy. It's strangely quiet; Foehart is not there to take the lion's share of malmsey, Yilgrid not near to slap his arm when he says something indecent. Everyone sips their mead quietly, solemnly.

There will be no celebration I already know, for Foehart's and my return. No bounty to boast, just bruised bone and a strange, devastatingly-powerful weapon contained in the skin of a peasant boy. My father will not want this crowed on about.

I've come home from my first mission, a failure.

Perhaps that's why Audrey gives me extra on my second helping, or why Nimueh looks so pleased. She murmurs a "thank you, my lord," whenever my father passes a bit of food down to her, sounding for once as if she means it. Bright blue eyes find mine, and then her smirk widens into a full-teethed smile. I hardly have time to repress a shiver when she rests a hand on my father's knee.

He looks down at her, eyebrows raised—Nimueh is not one for many words, especially in front of my father's subjects. But she looks relaxed enough, smiling softer at him than me, obviously waiting permission to speak. "Nimueh," my father allows, looking a bit curious.

"My lord, I apologize to interrupt such happy festivities on your son's behalf," she purrs back-handedly, still touching his knee, "I only have news. You told me to inspect the new recruit, examine him for explanation as to Foehart's state."

"I did," my father agrees, though his tone is clipped. "I did not, however, ask that you report to me immediately at supper. It can wait."

"Oh forgive me, but it cannot, my lord!" Nimueh sounds excited, like she's about to deliver wondrous news. "For even as we speak, the boy slowly dies. Morgana brought him to me, you see, and there is no doubt you must make your decision quickly, if you wish to use his magnificent power for yourself."

"Magnificent?" Uther raises an eyebrow, and she nods eagerly.

"Oh, indeed, Lord Uther." She sidles up, lifting from her knees to whisper the rest in his ear—though I still make out—". . . a _great_ weapon in the battle ahead, master . . ."

My father stares ahead, though his eyes are calculating as he listens to whatever else slides from her lips. When she finally sits back on her legs, expression triumphant, he nods.

"Perform it tonight, then," he acquiesces thoughtfully.

"The boy—he is to be a recruit, then," I can't help but ask to confirm, and his gaze snaps to mine like he's just realized I've been sitting here.

"Yes. If there is cooperation, I will be merciful."

I repress the sigh that wants to heave out in relief. My father looks firm in the decision, as well, and I cannot help but secretly bless Nimueh for whatever slippery words were uttered into the warlord's ear.

Then as my father stands, proposing a toast to "Honor and Victory," I catch Nimueh looking at me. "You're welcome," she mouths, and my jaw drops a little.

Just barely swallowing back a sound of shock, I manage to look away without answer. As if to pretend that I can't guess why she says so, that it's not disturbing how she simply seems to _know_ a stupid part of me is already attached to Merlin.

Nimueh's subtle smile in answer is unsettling to say the least. She's always been there, watching disinterestedly by Uther's side, always eyeing me as I've grown like a hungry boy eyes a plump, nesting sparrow above him—never quite foe, but by no means friend.

After supper my father tells me, "Be ready in the Council tent. The peasant will be brought, questioned there." Nimueh stands, trailing behind him as he brushes past me. "And if it submits to my satisfaction," Uther adds, loud enough for all to hear, "we will continue with the claiming tonight."

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 **A/N: I'm baaaack. I hope you've all had a great week, I know I have, and are also ready for the next few chapters! Things are going to pick up after this. Looking forward to hearing from all of you!**

 **catherine10: Your hatred for Uther is very understandable. I tend to make him rather unsympathetic, in my fanfics. All I can say is RAFO! Thanks for reviewing :)**


	11. To Submit

**11\. To Submit**

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Summary: _Finally my father lets go, releasing Merlin with a jerk. "I see no remorse in his eyes, but I see an opportunity." He looks at us all under his eyebrows, adding, "A weapon."_

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Usually Muirden is the one to orchestrate these in the Ascetir camp. The recruits—more than 300 in total, their numbers spreading well across my father's lands of conquest though most are currently at the front lines—are not often more than unassuming townsfolk, perhaps minor lord-sons and ladies at most, formerly of Camelot or the land about. No one to be missed, in these parts. They commonly carry little in way of power, or will, and easily bend to Muirden's conditioning.

Merlin is already different.

He kneels just inside the Council tent, and I can tell just upon walking in how he has changed since Morgana carded him past me. His skin is no longer pale; it's still sickly, but now with a blushing fever, perspiration peppering his forehead and catching in the candlelight. He's no longer limp, but shaking, like he's caught a chill. Though most of all, his eyes are now bright with coherency, shifting to look around himself with a loathing as heavy as the shackles weighing down his wrists.

The knights have shuffled in slowly, circling around him, and Uther is already standing there staring down at him. Merlin doesn't shrink under his gaze; his chin lifts, defiant and proud. I want to shake him, shake off that look. The look that could very possibly get him killed.

Nimueh slinks in then, not far off—she's smiling at me, hugging the corner of the tent in shadow. I ignore her as my father begins to speak. Ignore the prickling of my neck as he addresses all of us who stand around. "Sir Foehart and his trainee have brought this to us," he says, nodding at Merlin, "and I find myself ready to pass judgment."

He clears his throat. "This peasant has both undone the Lady's spell and fatally wounded one of my knights. Actions of mutiny . . . and yet, actions of interest. For murder I would sentence death, but as of yet Sir Foehart's heart beats on." My father moves forward, and Merlin flinches as the man's rough hands grabs his jaw and pulls up. The boy's face is bared, twisted and livid under the warlord's scrutiny. The warlord stares back coldly.

Finally my father lets go, releasing Merlin with a jerk. "I see no remorse in his eyes. But I do see an opportunity." He looks at us all under his eyebrows, adding, "A weapon."

"Was it not Sir Foehart's mission to seek out the rumors, to learn if this great sorcerer the Lady dreams of _existed_? Not to bring some peasant boy, with unlikely ability, back to _wreak havoc_."

The voice is that of Sir Oswald, an older knight, who stares sternly down at Merlin.

"Yes," Uther says gravely, "and for reasons he did not tell nor is capable of explaining now, Sir Foehart decided supplementary action. We can only guess as to his reasons, though perhaps he believed what I believe now." The crowd waits, anticipating as my father approaches Merlin once again. "And now I speak directly to you, boy," he says in a low voice, "and it's in your best interest you pay close attention."

He grabs the boy's bony shoulder and a fistful of dark hair with both hands, craning Merlin's head to look at him. The boy grunts in slight protest, pain contorting his features.

"You will be put to death," the warlord breathes out harshly, and I see Merlin's spine stiffen just as mine does the same, "you will drown or burn or hang."

" _Unless_." He shoves Merlin away, his back hitting the ground, "Unless you do two things. The first, being that you submit to my will. But the second, that you _heal Sir Foehart_ , just as you healed the woman they brought to you. Then you will have your life."

My father looks grim with satisfaction, watching as Merlin struggles to get off his back without the help of any hands. We all wait in silence, dread settling in my stomach as the boy finally rights himself. The defiant fire hasn't died in his eyes.

" _Well_ , boy," Uther almost drawls, smirking down at him.

Merlin glares back. Then he spits out one word.

" _No_."

A chorus of voices splits open the silence—

"The boy says 'No,' Lord Uther, proof already that—"

"—It is a brash answer, nothing more, surely it doesn't wish—"

"—Treachery against you! To scorn such mercy—"

"—No doubt now, if there ever was, a nuisance—"

"—Gods' grace, my lord, perhaps a minute of reflection—"

"—He has decided his fate, there is no question now!—"

The shouting escalates until my ears are buzzing with the sound. It immediately trails off, however, when Nimueh leaves her corner, walking through the midst of them. All of the knights part widely and quiet one by one to let her pass, as she moves slowly to where Merlin kneels.

Uther is staring stonily at Merlin up till then. Now his eyes flicker to his recruit. "Nimueh," he says slowly, though it's more than a greeting. It's an affirmation.

Nimueh nods, no longer smiling, and stands over Merlin somberly. Who takes one look at her and immediately hunches his back, as if expecting a blow. I watch in numb horror as the Lady points widespread palms over the air above him, her mouth beginning to chant. The strange words sound more ominous than ever, foreboding in the low tone they're uttered.

". . . bānwærc ac hreðerbealo ac dreogan, nefne mara feorhbealu, feorhbealu, feorhbealu . . ."

Her still-blue-for-now eyes move to mine, however, and there's something like a request in them.

I understand.

"My lord!"

I edge out of the crowd, interrupting an almost grateful-looking Nimueh who stops her words immediately. Merlin doesn't chance a glance up, but I see his head lift just a fraction.

The warlord is stone. "Soldier."

"With your permission, my lord, I—would you allow me a moment?" I jerk my head in Merlin's direction, and my father raises an eyebrow. "With the, uhh . . . possible recruit, I mean. I believe I can talk some sense into him. He's a bit well . . . _slow_ , in the head, sir."

My father's other eyebrow joins the first. "Is that correct?"

"My lord he is just a simple peasant at heart," Nimueh slides in sweetly, going so far as to ruffle Merlin's unkempt hair. The boy flinches at the contact. "And he's known dear young Arthur, though briefly, the longest of anyone. Perhaps it'd be in _everyone's_ best interest to . . . "

She cocks her head at the door, but there's no need. My father is already nodding, however stiffly, and the knights grumpily file out of the tent. Most look disappointed, a few relieved.

My father grabs my shoulder as he passes, muttering, "I expect you to make this worth my time."

The unspoken _or else_ seems to be implied anyway as he lets go and leaves, followed last by Nimueh. She winks, before closing the tent flap shut. We're alone, me and Merlin.

I am to convince him to spare his life—not his old life, but the lowly, subservient, enslaved one to come. There is no denying that is what awaits him, what he cannot escape from alive. I don't know what there is to offer—if there _is_ anything to offer—but as I watch his still form silently, I know I have to at least try to save him from himself.

Even if in a way he's already saving himself, from us.

A ball of nerves has worked its way up my throat as I approach, Merlin still in the same, hunched over position as he was before. Nothing but his breathing fills the silence, bated and heavy. Hesitantly I kneel next to him and wait, reminded of when he was retching the night before, when I thought to place a hand of comfort on the small of his back.

I do so now.

"Merlin?"

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for your comments, I'm glad everyone is enjoying how this is playing out. Up next is Arthur trying to persuade Merlin to . . . be a slave? Tell me how you think that is going to play out!**

 **catherine10: Aww, thanks! I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. Thank you for reviewing, it means a lot!**


	12. Low Blow

**12\. Low Blow**

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Summary: " _Fight for him until Camelot is overtaken. Then, your life is your own. I swear it, this won't be forever. You will return to your home, see your mother again."_

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He sucks in a breath, as if the sound of his name is startling. So I continue to say it, "Merlin? Merlin—" until he wrenches out of that curled position, staring at me with livid eyes. I withdraw my hand.

"She wasn't your mother, was she?" he accuses. I know immediately who he means.

The woman, the dying wretch he wasn't supposed to have been _able_ to save.

My silence is enough to answer. Merlin shakes his head, laughs humorlessly. "To think I condoned your actions, told myself you were innocent. You're just like them. Greedy, ruthless, lying _meat-heads_."

I swallow, and try for a smirk. "Meat-heads?" I repeat in an unaffected voice, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He glares back. "You won't change my mind."

"You're going to get yourself killed, then? Is that it?" I argue, and he rolls his eyes.

"Don't pretend you _care_."

"I don't," I retort harshly, ignoring his grim smile in return. "But your little village just might."

Merlin's sardonic expression falters, his eyes lowering from mine. Giving me hope that I can talk him out of this. "Your friend Will would."

Merlin reacts no further, not till I say, "Oh, and don't forget," I grip his arm lightly and squeeze with the words, "your _mum_. Do you think you can imagine, the complete and utter despair on her face, when your body returns and not you? How her whole world, her very person would just _shatter_ seeing you forever limp and pale, dead?"

I'm laying it on thick, but these words are simply echoes of what I hear the wives and mothers around Camp tell their husbands and sons before they leave for the front line. What Leon's mother has often murmured to him, before he heads off on another mission.

It seems to have the desired effect; Merlin's defiant features have finally crumbled, softened into the pain and misery that have been behind them all along. He shakes his head once, twice, three times before looking back up at me. "How dare you," he accuses—but there's a hitch in his voice I hear, and I know I've landed a blow—"How _dare_ you—you—"

"Save your life?"

"How dare you even speak of her!" he seethes, wrenching his arm from my grip. "And you, save me? To be your slave, you mean?"

"To be a recruit of my father's army," I say, no longer as proudly as I once would have. It doesn't sound as glorifying as it used to. But then the classic draw, what my father has used to keep the recruits motivated for years, slips out of me unbidden. "Fight for him until Camelot is overtaken. Then, your life is your own. I swear it, this won't be forever. You _will_ return to your home, see your mother again."

It's the fall back, whenever a recruit needs more encouragement than fear can supply. A taste of hope, however fleeting, that this isn't forever. Even if it really is.

The boy narrows his eyes. "I will be set free, to go back home?"

I nod mutely, encouraged by the flickering uncertainty on his face.

"Tell me one thing," Merlin says, his voice calm but insistent. "The woman—whoever she was. The one I healed. Is she alright?"

"She . . ."

Something chilly seems to walk straight through me as memories of Merlin's abduction reluctantly surface. I recall moving over to his unconscious body, ignoring whatever ruckus Foehart was making behind me. A muffled sound, maybe, some noise of a scuffle. Then Foehart dragging the woman into a corner, her bare heels scuffing against the dirt, matted hair shielding her face . . .

"I don't know." I blink away the images, refocusing on the boy's face again. "We left her there."

Merlin tenses for a moment, but quickly nods. "Where she's better off," he says, and I nod back. No doubt if she returned Nimueh would curse her twice over for surviving the Lady's original spell.

"Then I will take back my answer." He looks as if he's given his own death sentence, not saved his own life. I bite back the relieved sigh that wells up from my lungs, nodding. "I don't think I have it in me to ' _submit_ ,' though," Merlin admits, jaw set. "I won't be some dog to follow his every command. Even if I do heal that man . . . "

"The binding isn't one-sided," I say, hoping this will reassure and not deter him. "You're bound to another person, your guardian. My father won't really have all that much control over you. Well, unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"I grow tired of waiting."

My father's voice cuts in as he enters, and I jump at the sound. Merlin immediately ducks his head down. "If he is to change his mind and submit, he will do so now."

The knights have followed, Nimueh slinking in last, and just to judge from her pleased smile I can guess she's been listening in. "Tell me, boy," my father demands, glaring down at him, "Life, or death?"

The question sounds so simple, phrased like that, but I can see Merlin physically struggling with the decision. His spine is taut, his neck craned, his face contorted.

Finally he manages to find the word: "Life. _Life_ , I choose life."

The crowd is silent, though my father looks pleased and Nimueh looks smug.

"Good," my father nods. "A wise choice. You have only to thank Arthur for being merciful enough to convince you against your ill decision. Go ahead, tell him so." He jerks his head in my direction, and Merlin's eyes slowly follow.

"Thank you, Arthur," he obeys, and it even sounds the tiniest bit sincere.

But the warlord immediately steps forward, backhands the boy across his face. Merlin gasps, falling on his side, as my father snarls, "You will address him according to his rank, _son_ of Lord Uther."

My mouth is dry as Merlin manages to prop himself up a little and utter, "Thank you, my lord."

"Good," my father repeats, though it's curt and stiff this time. "Now then, before we begin: is there a man missing? A knight worthy of the claim who is not present?"

A slight murmur rumbles through the knights, looking around and muttering. But no one is absent—save Foehart, unconscious on his deathbed. "There is no one to call, my lord," Sir Jethro speaks for them, and they all nod in agreement.

"Very well. Nimueh."

She and my father meet, clasping hands. He looks straight into her eyes, chanting, "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð." In return Nimueh's eyes glow a faint gold, and she smiles. Her smirk sours a little, however, when he leans in and I catch—". . . his power at my side. So when you perform it, remember . . . "

Nimueh nods sharply until he backs away; then her face lights up with a thought. "The Old Religion has spoken to me of this boy," The Lady says for all to hear, standing above Merlin. "I have said before, I have dreamt of his great presence, and now I am _sure_ , Lord Uther, the name of Pendragon is entwined with his future—his very destiny."

She has Merlin stand, and the claim begins.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Thanks to everyone who's been giving me feedback and commenting in general :) Also thanks to those who hit the follow button! You should totally all do that if you haven't yet.**

 **catherine10: LOL you crack me up, I agree! Well, not entirely, I'm a bit selfish and prefer Merlin not to die, but that would be pretty hilarious. Thanks for reviewing!**


	13. Fate's Breath

**13\. Fate's Breath**

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Summary: " _A slow burn builds in my chest. It spreads from my lungs like I've caught a bit of the fire in one of my breaths, slowly growing every second. Feeding off me with my soul as fuel instead of oxygen."_

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His legs are shaking, barely keeping him upright through Nimueh's first monotone of chanting. I don't pay attention to the meaningless words, just focus on Merlin's shivering form, trying to gift him some borrowed strength. Not that I'm feeling too resilient—my stomach is turning with nausea, my mind already swimming with the image of him as another of my father's mastered.

For the 23 recruits in the Ascetir Camp, there are three times as many knights waiting for the honor and privilege to steward such bondage. For a knight even one recruit is a status of the highest sort, second only to having _more_ than one. My father has already two, including Nimueh the first and foremost. Few have acquired, earned or even _desired_ such a privilege—no one here, certainly. And now the warlord is to acquire his third.

I will never forget the moment after Sir Gorlois's death, when Morgana lashed and deemed one of _them_ , like her mother before her according to Uther—what she was before, what she is now.

No person with a soul would wish that on another.

When Nimueh finishes the first chant her eyes glow once more, and Merlin's eyes widen as a ring of flame licks around him with dazzling intensity. It looks bright, it feels hot. But from observing this my whole life, I know better. A much larger ring of the same sort flames up from around both of them, and a few knights back up a little.

It's quite the sight. The boy's eyes are wide, the fire reflecting in them, fearful as Nimueh walks slowly toward him and seizes his arms without warning. She bares his inner wrists, clamping her own hands over them.

"Bēacen o sē lēode, forniman o hearm. Nemnan on ādfȳr ac wēn, behātan o nīedling . . ."

Meanwhile Merlin cries out, trembling like a falling tree as her fingers dig lines into his skin. But through the power of her words the pattern is sliced through his wrists and bleeds black, thick inky lines that disappear up his sleeve and spill over his arms into the rampant fire between the two of them. Those flames crackle and sizzle in response, lowering but burning from red to blue by the time Nimueh finishes the chant.

When she does, the outer ring of fire surges upward into a wall of unnatural flame I can barely make anything out through. Squinting, I see Merlin a little, manage to catch some emotion flickering onto his face before he falls to his knees. Wrists still held out like an offering over the blue ring. Nimueh standing over him.

The second part is quick and understandably more memorable—she raises her arms, directing at us the words: " _Seek thy guardian!"_

The wall of fire suddenly rushes outward, blowing past me like a gust of dragon breath. How I imagine dragon breath, at least: warm and tingling and encasing every part of me. It's the most terrifying, yet most exhilarating part of every claim I've attended.

But not this time, peculiarly.

I feel warm and tingly, but not freshly elated. Instead of a fresh wave of energy, a slow burn builds in my chest. It spreads from my lungs like I've caught a bit of the fire in one of my breaths, slowly growing every second. Feeding off me with my soul as fuel instead of oxygen. When my eyes finally manage to blink open the larger circle of fire is gone, knights recovering and steadying themselves from the blast as well. Too many of them are not looking around for the chosen knight though, as per usual, but staring at me.

" _Arthur?_ " Uther breathes, with more infuriation than incredulity.

I glance from him to Sir Jethro, to the other knights, to Nimueh. To Merlin. Even he is staring at me oddly—squinting, as if his eyes are straining to do so. Knights near me step back.

"Arthur Pendragon, come forward," Nimueh says with a carefully neutral expression, and after a second I numbly obey. I don't really understand what's happening till she gestures to stop in front of Merlin, who's still squinting up at me.

"What are you glowing like that for?" he whispers when I near.

" _Shut up_ ," I hiss, feeling all eyes on me.

Merlin glares, but manages to stand on his own two feet again. We are hardly a few breaths away, and I can tell he's shivering. I might be as well, slowly realizing what has happened. Why I am suddenly part of a claim ritual. It's a long wait while Nimueh says nothing behind us, until I wonder if I'm to continue based off memory—a misfortune, considering everything I could previously remember seems to have been wiped entirely clean from my brain. Nerves will do that.

But then I hear her speak—or perhaps _think_ her speak.

 _Join hands together._

Merlin's eyes widen; he's heard the words as well. We blink at each other, taken aback by such magic as well as its request. There's a nervous ball of energy threatening to seize up from my stomach, delaying my reaction time as slowly we both raise our hands to meet—perfectly mirroring the same position Uther and Nimueh held before she began the binding. Master and slave, Guardian and Recruit, Claimed. _Bound._

I don't want to do this.

I see my own panic reflected back in Merlin's eyes at the next silent command: _Now cross over the fire._ I feel it directed towards me, know my feet should now move into the wicked blue flames curling between us. But I also know the second that it happens, there will be no going back.

For one moment I glance down, and then up to assess the emotion in Merlin's eyes. But he's already tugging me, urging me forward with a strange kind of determination.

I take a breath and step through.

I'm not sure what I expected—a small tickle, perhaps? A faint warm breeze? Just something very unlike the tall blue, magical flames I'm stepping through, since they _are_ magical.

But I do feel it. Perhaps it doesn't exactly burn my physical skin, but the fire still eats at the inside of me in the long, stretching, drawn-out second it takes to enter its ring. Up closer, Merlin looks even worse; his eyes fever-bright, face flushed and sweating from either the fire or the fear or both. His face contorts, the second I'm inside the ring with him, like someone's stuck a blade through his middle.

I frown in confusion till I feel it as well—not a blade, an acid. Seeping into my veins up my arm to my heart, from where our palms meet. Where they are now melded together without hope of escape, both victims of some immovable, unseen force.

Words slide off my tongue unbidden suddenly, and I listen in horror as I feel myself say, "Ic fæstnian ēow anweald, don mīn ferð. Ic fæstnian ēow. " The words feel so poignant escaping from my lips, thick and heavy and for some reason, interpreted: _I bind thy power to do my will. I bind thy life, to mine._

Merlin's grip on my hands, fingers slotted between each of mine, seizes to the point of pain. His whole body goes rigid, face paling and breath cutting off. But what makes me flinch, makes the coward in me want to beg to be released from his grasp, is the bright glow suddenly burning in his eyes. Brighter than any fire conjured tonight. It chokes the natural blue of his irises, erases all trace of Merlin and swirls in to replace him. With a _sorcerer_.

 _Emrys_ , a voice that is not Nimueh's seems to whisper in my ear. _His name is Emrys._

But then just as quickly as the gold in his eyes brightens and intensifies, it dulls. Fades out. Empties into a natural blue again. Meanwhile, the similarly blue fire sputters out around us and the burning acid in my veins slows.

Merlin's whole body slumps, and I'm all that's keeping him up now.

"It is finished." I glare at Nimueh's smug voice over my shoulder. She's smiling.

My father is not.

He stalks toward me at an alarming speed, and all I can do is watch stupidly as he rips Merlin's hands out of mine, yanks my right arm's sleeve up, and glares at the skin. I stare down in numb horror as he curses loudly, at the thick black lines marking from my inner wrist up my arm, disappearing into my sleeve. Markings I've seen my whole life on others, suddenly so alien now on my own skin.

"Nimueh . . ." He growls, releasing me and stalking towards her.

"My lord—" I hear her say behind me, but its cut off with a shriek. _Her_ shriek.

Merlin sees, looking as horrified as I am about my arms—with a sinking feeling I quickly inspect to find the other one is just as marked—as shriek becomes shrieks, Uther shouting above it all: "He was mine! Mine to control! You gave him to a boy! He's soft, too weak for this. You deceiving, _conniving_ little wretch, you've done this on purpose, you—"

I don't need to turn and look, to know what I will see. Uther seething above his recruit, turning her own power into a force against her. Twisting their binding like one twists a whip. I've seen it done too many times not to be familiar, even desensitized to it—but Merlin obviously isn't.

I turn him roughly so we're shoulder to shoulder, so he can't watch. He lurches back in surprise, and I see instinctual intent lock onto his face. Like I've surprised him into attacking me. But then his expression twists into something akin to pain—Merlin groans. I look down and double-take at the marks on his arms, the lines even thicker and more woven on his skin than mine. They aren't black right now—they're glowing, gold.

But it fades an instant later, Merlin letting out a breath of relief, and I grab his arm to pull him away. Out of the center of the knights. The new display—Lord Uther punishing his recruit for all to see—seems to distract so that none notice as we slip into the midst of the crowd. Even if Merlin's breathing is fast next to me, shuddering.

Finally my father relents. "Explain yourself," he hisses at the hunched woman, who is gasping for breath.

"My lord . . . I had . . . no idea, milord, no idea . . . I knew the name Pendragon, nothing more . . . I assumed . . ." Nimueh pants, and finally glances pleading eyes up at her master. "The Old Religion takes and chooses who it will, Lord Uther . . . I cannot change that. I . . . I've never professed to control it."

He is silent, jaw locked, and she seems to take it as a sign to continue. "Yet he is your son, dear Lord, your son, your most faithful subject . . ."

"He is yet a child. In _my_ hands, this recruit would have—" He moves to point where Merlin and I used to be standing, only to find empty air. The confusion that contorts his face is almost comical.

"Lord Uther! News from the physician!"

Everyone turns, where a guard stands formally at the half-opened tent door. When Uther nods with a creased brow, he steps aside. Then it turns out to be Muirden, not Gaius, who shuffles in.

"What sort of news?" my father prompts with clear annoyance, and Muirden bows his head politely.

"Sir Foehart," he answers, and I feel Merlin's shoulders tense at the name. Muirden looks up, and from his shaggy bangs of curls, says, "He has passed on. There was little that could be done. Not ten minutes ago, my lord."

My heart stutters a beat.

Awful silence. Foehart gone, never to return, sounds unbelievable. Everyone seems to be eyeing the slightly-askew tent flap door now, even my father—as if Foehart will pop in any moment, laughing at his friends' solemn faces. Catching Arthur's eye to wink at him.

"Master Gaius is with his widowed wife now, sir. Otherwise he would be delivering the ill tidings."

"Yes. Yes, that is . . . very well, then. A procession will be arranged, for dawn tomorrow." The warlord clears his throat.

"And his killer, milord?" This comes from a younger knight, by name of Redney.

All eyes turn to Merlin. My father's expression turns hard, stony.

"Bide their time well, don't they? Ten minutes less and it wouldn't have been too late for Sir Foehart," Sir Oswald says. "Just as conniving as the rest."

"I will think on it tonight," my father appeases, though his mind already looks set on something. "I will—"

" _WHERE IS HE_! No, let me through, let me _through_! YOU WILL NOT STAND IN MY WAY!"

Yilgrid bursts through the door—a guard, two women, and even old Gaius on her heels—dark eyes roving across the crowd for just a second. They skip over even my gaze, just as she finds Merlin next to me. Then with a rather frightening battle cry the young woman glares—pulling out two knives from either side of her belt, baring teeth—and charges forward.

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 **A/N: I actually combined two chapters, as the one I could have uploaded by itself would have been pitifully short. Your welcome.**

 **Everyone is really busy around this time of year, though, so hopefully you had time to read all of it! My every-other-day goal seemed kind of a moot point right now, as I love being spoiled with reviews and no one has much time to give them currently. AND THAT'S PERFECTLY OKAY. Most people don't write reviews at all. I hope everyone enjoys their holidays, and gets through finals if they're still in school, or gets an awesome Christmas bonus check or the like, and we all spend time with people we love! I'm not sure how often updating is going to happen in December, it really depends on how busy I get and how busy you are. Let me know what would work for you (if you want to...your silence will work as an answer just the same, haha).**


	14. Uncertain Saviors

**14\. Uncertain Saviors**

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Summary: " _I couldn't stop her." Merlin's horrified voice behind me interrupts my thoughts. "She came at us, and I could save you. I_ did _. But when she started attacking me . . ."_

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I silently curse my tactlessness, telling Yilgrid hours before of Merlin's identity after she saw him. Her husband's killer. At the time she must have been too numb for it to process. But now, edged with the raw grief of her husband's passing, she is a formidable foe.

Yilgrid never misses.

And no one has the reaction time to stop her as she darts through the crowd, toward us, raising one of the daggers. " _Wait_! Yilgrid, stop—!" I take a step forward in front of Merlin, but it's like she can't _see_ me. Her wrist flicks just as I speak and then all I can do is watch—the gleam of metal, silver darting through the air, straight at me. So quick, I could blink and I know it'll be over. There will be a knife impaled in my chest.

Except in that quite blink-able second, I go from standing to completely run over, breath slammed out of my lungs as I hit the ground by a surprisingly strong force. Surprising because, as I blink the image into focus, it turns out to be Merlin's tired, worried, dirty face.

"You don't look sick anymore," I observe offhand, noticing how his eyes look focused as they fade from gold back to blue and his face doesn't look feverish. Maybe a bit on the pale side, but that probably can't be helped.

Merlin rolls his eyes and gets off me, huffing. "Your _welcome_." I smirk up at him, and he shakes his head.

But we've forgotten the danger has yet to be concluded. Merlin looks up, his vexed expression turning petrified. I follow his gaze to see Yilgrid, her other knife in hand, closing in and immediately making a swipe at the boy. I'm trying to get to my feet while Merlin manages to duck, my hand barely catching the woman's wrist in time before she directs another stab. He flinches back.

"Stop! Stop it! _Yilgrid_ ," I say, and her determined, hateful expression wavers. She looks at me, this time with recognition.

A single tear escapes down her cheek.

Then my father's voice carries over to us: "Take her away from here. The woman is mad with grief." One tear turns to many, and Yilgrid is sobbing inconsolably by the time the knights lead her out. Knife limp in her hand until it's taken away. I watch her go, unsure how to feel.

Angry at her, for seeking justified revenge? At Merlin for last night, attempting justified escape?

I can't decide for which that I feel my blood boiling.

"I couldn't stop her." Merlin's horrified voice behind me interrupts my thoughts. "She came at us, and I could save you. I _did_. But when she started attacking me . . ."

Guilt trickles into my chest. "That's part of everything, actually." Part of every twisted, messed-up rule this claiming ceremony has induced. "You can't . . . it doesn't let you . . ." I gulp.

"It is best your recruit does not accompany the procession tomorrow. You will have to stay behind," my father says, approaching us. I straighten right away and nod my head. "Good. Tomorrow training must begin—immediately. I will send for arrangements to be made in your sleeping quarters. You are dismissed."

The last part is loud, to everyone, and Merlin follows me hesitantly out through the small crowd of knights who look disapprovingly down at him. "Come _on_ , Merlin," I grumble when he trips on something down the path—or more likely, on nothing.

"Where are you going?" he asks, brushing himself off.

" _We_ are going to my tent, so I can get my sword."

"Your—your sword?" His voice sounds a bit worried.

I roll my eyes, though he can't see. "Yes, Merlin. The pointy metal thing real men are wont to using."

Merlin doesn't say anything more when we reach the tent, or after when we've ducked inside and stand there silently, not looking at each other. My sword is where I left it, resting on my cot. But I don't pick it up. There's a dangerous pill of anger traveling through my system still. My chest aches and my eyes burn and I can't stand looking in his direction.

Merlin doesn't say a thing, and somehow that makes it worse.

After minutes of silent fuming I find myself unable to hold it in. "This is just perfect," I start sardonically, turning to him, and Merlin finally raises his head. "Just when I thought I'd gotten rid of you. Now, I'll be forced to look after a _child,_ for—forever, practically!"

"Really? I can't imagine being forced into something," Merlin raises a hand to his heart in mock sympathy. "How _dreadful for you_."

"Oh shut up, Merlin. You should be grateful," I snarl, taking a step toward him.

He looks nonplussed. "Thank you, Arthur. Or should I say, master? Thank you, master, for reducing me to nothing—the scum off the back of your people's boots."

"You've certainly got a lot on your face right now."

" _You—!"_ He steps forward as well, livid eyes focused on mine. I raise my eyebrows in challenge, ready to spring for my sword resting on the cot behind me.

The anger in them weakens, however. Merlin's groaning and slumping as the marks on his arms flare up underneath his threadbare sleeves for a second time, and then fade. This time he falls to his knees, hunching forward with an arm for balance. "Merlin . . . ?" I start, shocked out of my anger.

He looks up at me with such hatred burning in his eyes I flinch back. "You've killed me," he spits through gritted teeth. "You think you _saved_ me. But you haven't.

"I may as well be dead, now."

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 **A/N: Thanks for all the comments! I just finished my last final (AHHHHHHHH), so I figured I'd celebrate with an update. No big deal.**

 **WritingWarrior: I must say the same, young adolescent Arthur and Merlin are even more loveable (if that's possible). I can REALLY sympathize about the whole nocturnal-ness, I just barely got myself to fall asleep at midnight last night and that's crazy early for me! And awwww, you're so sweet, I wish you best of luck on your finals. Thanks for reviewing :D**

 **catherine10: He is indeed. I was quite surprised at the majority of you who liked my OC Foehart, but alas his death plays a larger, much more important role than his character would alive. Thanks for reviewing!**


	15. Settling In

**15\. Settling In**

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Summary: _I can see behind their respectful nods. Word must have gotten out, about the strange new recruit who looks barely a boy—now sired to a guardian who barely isn't._

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A small noise surprises both of us, and I have my sword pointed at the tent flap by the time a meek voice entreats: "Permission to enter?"

"What for?" I say, relaxing. I think I recognize the voice.

"Arrangements for the lordson's new recruit," it replies, and I pull the door open to reveal Guinevere. She's a simple serf, short and young and curly-haired. The daughter of the blacksmith Leon was a part of capturing on his first mission. Tucked under her arm is what I assume the 'accommodations' my father spoke of must be.

"Right," I nod curtly, letting her let herself in. The light has dimmed, and she's brought a candle. Her shadowed form hesitates upon entering, however, eyes flashing a concerned look as they stick to Merlin's still-doubled-over form.

"Should I send for . . .?"

Ignore him," I say, residual anger making my words tight. "I'm going out for a while."

Guinevere smiles hastily back in answer, and I walk out with a second glance. Leon should be nearby, and he's almost always up for an impromptu sparring session. I can stay out for hours usually, till the dark has completely swallowed the camp and Jethro finally entreats us to get some sleep.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, Merlin will have run away by the time I get back.

That's not how the claim work, of course. No—rules are, a recruit cannot leave their guardian's side. More than a few days or a few leagues away could be fatal for them, by laws of the claim. Not something Merlin would know quite yet, but something he'd realize quite soon after escaping.

And that'd take a miracle. The camp's _outer_ ring is almost impenetrable, guarded so tightly and unerringly by men as if walls of actual stone protects the perimeter. But while a brilliantly organized system of sentries is the main weapon against intruders on the boundaries, the inner ring is impossible. Merlin's own kin guard those posts, recruits and their guardians with far-reaching eyes and one formidable weapon.

I find Leon at the largest of these towering posts with his father and Freya.

"Leon, can you—?" I say, but he's already standing, nodding. His smile is bright but worried, leaning more and more towards the latter a few minutes later. We've finished drills and started actually fighting.

Perhaps I'm not being as careful with my movements; my feet stomp much more than dance, my sword swings much more than strikes. "You're upset," he says between breaths, our dulled swords clashing close between us.

"Why do you say that?" I grit through my teeth, throwing off our weight. I make a lunge. Leon easily sidesteps. Then he crowds nearer again, making a swipe for my side. I manage to recover and block it—but not before he catches my ankle with his foot and my back hits the ground. " _Oof._ "

"Because I don't think I've beat you that quick since you graduated from a wooden sword," he teases, grinning smugly at me with his sword lightly touching my chest. I feel my face go red. I'm certainly not an excellent swordsman quite yet, but I'm not a horrible one.

My face must have communicated something, because his teasing grin quickly sobers. "Not that it's at all . . . _wrong_ , to be upset," he says slowly, worry lines creasing his brow. I nod, deliberately swallowing against the thickness in my throat and accepting his offered hand. Leon keeps his hold on my arm after I get back on my feet, looking down at me. "You should go see him."

I know immediately what he means, but ask anyway. "Who?"

"Foehart," Leon claps me on the back, and then steps back. "Before—before the morning, I mean." He looks at me intently, and I understand: before the procession, when my grief is just my own.

I manage a smile in answer, saying quickly, "I feel a bit tired," sheathing my sword and turning away.

"Yilgrid needs you."

I stiffen at his words, but don't glance back. I feel Leon's gaze on me for long after.

The trek to the infirmary takes little more than ten minutes, but the questioning looks and wary glances make it seem much longer. I can see behind their respectful nods. Word must have gotten out, about the strange new recruit who looks barely a boy—now sired to a guardian who barely isn't.

Gaius's tent would be a welcome sight if I didn't know what awaits me in it. A body, only curves and lines recognizable under the drawn sheet Gaius always covers the dead with. I'm not sure I'm going to follow Leon's advice until I'm already standing just outside the large tent. Pacing.

I can remember nothing before Yilgrid. Her mother, Yalta, had been my wet nurse when my mother died in childbirth after her own child, Yilgrid's little brother Rais, came into the world barely two months before. Yilgrid harped over us like any older sister, eight years our senior. Rais was the one who became my playmate as we grew, and was up until our 6th year, when a scourge of fever swept over the Camp and took both him and Yalta.

It was just me and Yilgrid then.

If plans had gone according to plan, I never would have known her. My father would have overtaken Camelot two years before my birth, and never bothered with claiming its towns one by one. That's where Yalta and her two children came from; the first conquered town. Perhaps Foehart would have died in the planned battle, and I would have known none of them.

Of course, if plans had gone according to plan, I would be a prince growing up in the citadel and living in a castle. Not a warlord's son, growing up in the woods and sleeping in a tent.

But I know her, and she knows me better than my father could ever attempt to. Perhaps, that is why, when I brave a look inside—see her sitting next to the covered body, staring at it silently—I know to retreat and leave her be.

The night seems as somber as I feel when I return, quiet and low playing in my ear. It grates horribly with the laughter escaping from the inside of my tent, a sound of light-heartedness.

Guinevere and Merlin are seated across from each other I see upon raising the door flap, Merlin in the middle of describing something obviously comedic. He looks different in some essential way, and I stare an extra second before realizing his hair is wet but shiny, skin pale but clean. Bathed, I suppose. They don't notice at first that I'm entering, that I see the bright attention lighting Guinevere's eyes. ". . . But, the next day, the river mud dried so well you could still see—"

"Guinevere."

". . . our face imprints," Merlin finishes. But Guinevere's already on her feet, surprised horror quickly replacing her happy expression.

"You are dismissed," I tell her, and she nods hurriedly as she leaves. I cross to my bed, unbuckle my belt and place my sword in the chest under my bed. Ignoring Merlin, till he speaks.

"She was nice."

I sigh, turn around to look down at him. Disapproving. "You were talking with the girl ever since I left."

" _Yes?_ " He can tell I'm not done on the subject.

"You can't." When Merlin stares at me in confusion, I grit my teeth and continue, "You can't act like that with anyone. Even _she_ as a serf is above you, in rank."

I prepare for bed in silence, blowing out the candle Guinevere left even though I know Merlin hasn't so much as rolled out a place for himself. In the dark I can hear him move about, though, the rustle of fabric indicating he's undressing blindly.

The only thing left is the usual sound of crickets and tree frogs after that, and I shiver as I remember the night before. Seeing Foehart, lying in a crumbled heap in the dark. Pinning Merlin down, drugging him into unconsciousness against his will. And then succumbing to it myself, curled up on the freezing forest floor. I wonder if Merlin is remembering it as well.

"I really killed him, then?" he whispers, practically confirming my suspicions. I don't answer. "I've never killed anyone," he continues, more to himself. "I didn't even know I _could_ . . ."

"I don't believe you," I reply in a cutting voice, and I can tell by his sharp intake of breath that I've surprised him—maybe he thought I'd fallen asleep.

"Why?"

I scoff in answer.

"Why do you think I would try to? How many our age have you met that have killed before?" His voice reaches a desperate pitch, almost cracking at the word 'killed.' But its not enough.

"You don't sound too broken up over it."

Merlin doesn't argue back. We shift in our bedding for a while in silence.

"I hate you."

It sounds weird to my ears, rolls off my tongue wrong, like I was never meant to say such a thing to him. But it's already resting there in the air, and I listen for a reply with what surely must be mutual.

But maybe Merlin fell asleep. He never answers.

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 **A/N: I'm baaaaaack. Finally. But December isn't a great month to be consistent in anything; the month itself is so inconsistent with its bonuses and holidays and tests scrambled through the weeks! Lol. I hope you all enjoyed this new chapter, though, I personally enjoyed writing it and am looking forward to hearing from you after so many days apart . . . (my fault, yes yes I know.) Enjoy and leave comments!**

 **catherine10: Yes, I plan to continue, though I apologize for such a wait! Hope you liked this update as well, thanks for leaving a review!**


	16. Battling Wills

**16\. Battling Wills**

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Summary: _It's all vague, all noncommittal words—but his tone is clear. If I cannot command my recruit by then, Merlin will suffer for it._

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Things happen rather quickly, after that.

Sir Foehart is buried. I stay in my tent the next morning, through the entirety of his procession and funeral. I hear them pass by, one by one, a great line of candles at dawn pricking light through the tent canvas. The fallen warrior is always carried at the front of it, off to the highest hill in this wood where many before him these past years have laid to rest. Merlin sleeps through it.

But before I even have my breeches tied Muirden barges in saying he's here to take Merlin for training, though even his sour face betrays a bit of amusement at the sight of Merlin's bedhead.

Merlin's eyes are puffy and red as he opens them, though, a sight that I shouldn't be surprised to see but nonetheless leaves me quiet as Merlin quickly flattens his hair and ties his breeches. Finally he nods at Muirden, ready to go, and the man raises an eyebrow at Merlin's bare feet.

"Humble beginnings, I presume?" he smirks, and Merlin's cheeks flush.

I pull out my old worn-out pair without thinking, and Merlin and Muirden both stare at me as I roughly shove them at Merlin's chest. The shock in both of their eyes is almost insulting.

But not unwarranted. "Get them on, then," I say with a quick raise of the chin, crossing my arms as Merlin hesitantly leans over to fasten them.

He has to lace each one rather tight, but its a good enough fit. Muirden bows his head at me, murmuring, "Good day to you, lordling," and with a pressing hand at Merlin's back leads them both out.

Each day after is quite similar. Muirden takes Merlin and I train with Leon and the others. I don't see him again until after midday meal, when I join in: to learn the strange words for command, how best to assert my will.

"Ic alīesan . . . ēow anweald don mīn fe . . . ferð."

" _Command_ him, lordling. _Bend him_ to your will."

After four days of practicing the foreign words, trying to beckon out what the claim has so tightly tied down, it seems impossible. My face twists in frustration, hands clenching harder in Merlin's as he stares back.

Face blank, but eyes smug.

"Ic aleesan o anwald don minfero!" I shout, and wrench Merlin's hands away in anger when, once again, nothing happens. He shakes them out, no doubt sore after my grip.

"What is this?"

My father's cool voice spoken from behind me freezes my hot anger, and I turn around to meet his calculating, inquisitive gaze. "Arthur is having _some_ trouble with this one, my lord," Muirden bows his head, and I grit my teeth as he draws out "some." Even if it is relatively true.

My father looks between Merlin and me, and nods.

"There is a quick remedy for that," he says, both dismissive and ominous. His almost colorless eyes pierce Merlin's flitting gaze, voice warning, "Report to me on the progress made by the end of the week, Muirden. If it is not up to standard, we can take further action." Then the warlord leaves as abruptly as he arrived.

It's all vague, all noncommittal words—but his tone is clear. If I cannot command my recruit by then, Merlin will suffer for it.

A few nights later Merlin speaks to me. "What does he have planned, do you think, to 'take further action'?"

It's easier here, in the dark, without having to look at Merlin's face and get caught up in contradicting thoughts. I simply answer with whatever flits to my mind first: "Punishment. For you, probably."

"Why do _I_ get punished just because _you_ can't control me?"

The impertinence never ceases to amaze me. "It's completely your fault, that's why," I retort. "If you weren't so bloody stubborn in your head we would have figured it out by now."

He doesn't argue, probably knowing I'm right. And because, ever since the binding, my feelings have this . . . echo. Usually just of fear, or anger, but other things as well. Sorrow, anxiety, hesitation—sometimes, even curiosity.

And I'm starting to think that echo is Merlin.

Is that how Nimueh and Uther live? Freya and Jethro? Any number of other recruits and guardians? I daren't ask Merlin if he feels the same, if a part of me is vulnerable to his scrutiny as well. Because every time I feel it, I look at his face and think I see behind the boy's mask an increment more.

"Perhaps if you would . . . ease up. Let me just, just do it, take over. It's going to have to happen eventually, anyway," I say carefully, guilt eating at my tongue. That guilt is echoed by Merlin's panic, fresh and frantic.

"No way am I _letting_ you," he says in a voice that probably meant to be firm, but comes out shaky. "You think I'll just willingly allow you to take over my magic?"

"What magic?" I shoot back, and decide to sit up. I see the outline of him at the opposite end of the tent, curled up under a thin blanket. "Without me it doesn't matter anyway—you'll never use it again!"

I can't see his expression. But I feel my desperation, echoed by his determination.

"I'd _never_ use it again, rather than let you have it."

I groan, dropping back to my bedding in frustration. "I can feel you blocking me, stopping me," I tell him, "but it's not going to last. Whether you 'let' me or not, you won't be able to hold out. I've seen it before."

With Morgana, crumpling to her knees after days of the same obstinate determination. In the end, still defeated by her guardian's wrath.

Days pass, and not an hour too soon on the last day of my father's deadline, once more I speak the words, "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð." This time, Merlin's eyes light up, and there's a tugging at my heart that burns, like a release of poisonous acid racing down through my arms to our meeting palms. It feels like relief, like pulling out a splinter or icy water poured on a burning rash.

The feeling is overwhelming, making me almost forget the next steps. Eventually I can hone down my scattered thoughts and think of a drizzle as Muirden said; light rain, tapping against our heads.

When I let go of his hands, Merlin gasps, and a flash-storm drops from the sky.

* * *

 **A/N: Its a New Year! And with that, a new (short) chapter! Lol, a little late in coming, but oh well. Let me know what you think of this new update - is Arthur at least being less of an "ignorant ass," would you say?**

 **catherine10: Yeah, I didn't get along with Arthur a lot in the series either, though I still loved him bunches 3 He's a problematic fave of mine, for sure...though pretty much all the Merlin characters would qualify, I think. Thanks for leaving your comments :D**


	17. Mixed Tidings

**17\. Mixed Tidings**

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Summary: " _Good fortune. A brighter future; a changed one, with this new recruit bound to you." Uther's eyes fall down to Merlin, who stiffens. "The soldiers returning for the winter will be rest assured: our future has never been brighter."_

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The drops do start out as a light drizzle, to be fair. For about three seconds. Then it falls steadily, then it pours, then it _rains_. Sheets and sheets, Merlin stands in front of me looking up at the sky like an unearthly creature, motionless and golden-eyed. He hadn't even said the spell out loud. I hear Muirden shouting instructions I've heard many times over, as the winds pick up and a crack of thunder booms: _direct your thoughts to a peaceful space, imagine an end, call your recruit's_ true name _out in your mind._

A small, faraway island on a calm lake.

A golden sword pulled into its scabbard.

 _EMRYS._

Everything quiets.

Merlin is breathing quickly, not seeming any worse for wear—besides looking like a drowned mouse. I'm soaked as well, but it worked and when his now-blue eyes meet mine Merlin doesn't seem to completely hate me for it. In fact, his lips tug up in some semblance of a grin, pride echoing my pride, and I grin a little back.

"Well done, Arthur," Muirden says, however, and Merlin's face falters.

When Muirden leaves a bit later to report, there doesn't seem any need to worry. I lay in the oddly-not-soaked grass, Merlin sitting in it nearby, and neither of us speaks—but for once the silence doesn't kill. I feel content watching the gray clouds swirl across the sky, the trees bending through their winds and absolutely no semblance of Merlin's— _our_ —great magical act traceable.

"Your recruit has been called to the council tent," Sir Redney comes to report not two minutes later. He makes to grab Merlin by the arm without waiting for an answer.

"What for?" I stop him, trying to ignore the wide-eyed expression on Merlin's face. My worry, echoed by his worry.

Redney looks at me as if I've sprouted horns. "How should I know?" he says, and moves around me to walk on.

I follow till I can't any longer, waiting a few tents away with more concentration on that slightly off, echoing emotion I have always attributed to Merlin. And it changes like the reddening dusk, painting a vivid picture: Uncertainty, Defiance, Fear, _Pain_ , Hatred . . .

My worry, meanwhile, changes to sick foreboding. When Merlin returns for the evening meal—hunched over, with no visible mark of abuse but radiating anger—I look down at the roasted game and feel nauseated. Merlin, who has to sit at my feet at any given mealtime, takes none of what I offer him. He just looks down, hands in his lap.

"Your recruit carries remarkable power," my father says around the venison in his mouth. "That storm was rather impressive."

"Thank you, sir," I nod, feeling all at once relieved and worried by such words.

But then he motions to his own recruit, saying, "I've decided Nimueh will continue the training from here on out. Only she is match for this kind of power, here in camp. We must be ready."

"Yes, sir."

"Good—Nimueh, now, tell him of the news."

He pats her dark head, but it is still a command. Nimueh smiles sickly sweet, saying, "Wouldn't it be best for Morgana to deliver such tidings? As it _was_ she who received them."

"What about?" I ask.

"Good fortune. A better future; a c _hanged_ one, with this new recruit bound to you." Uther's eyes fall down to Merlin, who stiffens. "The soldiers returning for the winter will be rest assured: our future has never been brighter."

He takes a long drink from his goblet before continuing. "I _did_ hear, however, that there is still some unruliness, some obstinacy. The storm, which I immediately knew upon sight could not be natural, was brought forth instead of the rain Muirden instructed. Correct, Arthur?"

I nod mutely, and he raises his eyebrows. "As I thought. And, after it being confirmed by Muirden, discipline was necessary. Not punishment of course - just a taste for the future. Quite shortly you will learn how to administer it yourself." He gestures to Merlin, and I try to keep my face blank in answer. But not even Nimueh can stop her expression from darkening.

We retire, Merlin trudging silently along and rolling off waves of malice towards anything and anyone within range. I don't speak up, keep my eyes on the ground. Truly hoping Merlin cannot sense me as I do him, and the uneasiness filling up my head.

It changes to surprise on both accounts when Morgana stands at my tent door, looking both business-like and despondent.

"Morgana," I say, because there is little else to.

"Arthur," she nods stiffly, "I'm to tell you my dream. By order of Lord Uther."

"Alright." I shift uncomfortably. "Go ahead then."

"For your ears only," her eyes flicker to Merlin worriedly, and with an exasperated sigh I motion for Merlin to stay back, ushering Morgana into the tent.

"What is it." I turn on her immediately, crossing my arms.

"I saw the Pendragon crest, adorning Camelot," she answers plainly, and I stifle a sucked-in breath.

" _What?_ "

"Yes. The knights littering its citadel, in red capes, not in war but peace. A round table, a blessed sword and a beloved king. Not his face, yet," she shakes her head, "but still, the people's faces. Filled with _joy_."

But Morgana's eyes are filled with sorrow, the last word spoken sourly. She quickly turns to go.

"Why did my father have you tell me this?" I stop her, touching her shoulder for a brief moment.

Her green eyes flit to mine hesitantly. "I saw the same future, always have, Arthur—till now. Since the village boy, your recruit."

"What did you see before?" I ask, and it's no surprise when Morgana doesn't answer. She shakes her head and exits, leaving me to wonder if this knowledge has saved Merlin, or condemned him.

Merlin doesn't come in, however. I hear murmuring outside, from the sounds of it Merlin and Morgana, and when it goes on long enough I chance a look.

". . . wish I could say, but its different for all of us." She has a hand on Merlin's shoulder, his head bowed.

"I don't blame you," he says, slowly lifting his head, and she smiles a weak smile at him.

"Thank you." They stand there quietly, and I'm just about to announce my presence when she sighs. ". . . Why can't anyone see it?"

"See what?"

Morgana smiles a small, sad smile. "When we bleed," she murmurs, looking over him slowly as if she can see wounds that are not there, "we bleed the same."

She turns to go, and I immediately back away before Merlin can walk in and catch me eavesdropping. But over the next few days I play over Morgana's words again and again: a round table, the Pendragon crest in Camelot, all of it only since _Merlin_.

 _When we bleed, we bleed the same._

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry my friends, I've been promising a lot of you better times! I guess it depends on your definition (though I'd agree this chapter doesn't qualify at all). Reactions aren't something I've gotten for any of 'Recruit,' its unbeta-ed and tested only on you, my fellow readers. So just to be clear about recent events and future ones:**

 **Merlin will stay a recruit/slave for a long time, though their relationship is going to eventually become one of friendship despite that. Arthur changes, slowly but surely. Still I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm not a nice person to my characters. Be warned. (Maybe I should put a warning for intense angst and Merlin abuse at the beginning of this fic? Lol, I'm considering it.)**

 **There won't be anything very gory or crazy violent, but its gonna stay dark. The claim is a pretty dark concept in and of itself, as you have and will see. This fic is rated T and not 'just in case.' It never crosses a line past that (ixnay on sex, intense swearing or intense violence), I've made sure, but don't expect to come out of reading these updates feeling warm and fuzzy. Hehe.**

 **Anyway, if you took the time to read all that I hope you've been educated, enlightened, forewarned, all that jazz! This was a general announcement I've realized needed to be made for quite some time, so I figured there's nothing like the present. Let me know if you'd like to be warned about something specific. Let me know if you love all this dark stuff! Or whatever. Its cool.**

 **Lastly (sorry this is so long) PLEASE someone follow this story quick so it can leave the awkward follower amount it currently rests at ! ! I'm not mature enough for this.**

 **catherine10: Slightly is better than nothing! And awww, shucks, you're making me blush :))) Thanks for reviewing, its always great to hear from you!**


	18. Repercussions

**18\. Repercussions**

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Summary: " _Don't you know today is the day you must stand with Lord Uther as the last of the wounded arrive? At his right hand side of course, with Merlin at yours, a beacon of power to his_ noble knights _."_

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It's the next morning that I see Yilgrid, the first time since her attempt on Merlin's life. Today is different; normal duties are put aside in anticipation of incoming soldiers from the front. She looks up from the ground meal she is helping Audrey the cook dish out into bowls, serving those in line for breakfast. And when our eyes meet, I immediately smile, hoping to see some semblance of love reflect back in her eyes.

Of course, Merlin is right at my heels.

Her red, dry hands immediately freeze in their task, eyes staring past me to him like she's been cornered by a wraith. The spoon in her hand shakes, a glop of the meal plopping to splat on the table between us.

I glance back at Merlin, mouth open to say something, though I haven't figured out exactly what yet - and his face stuns me back into silence. The two are locked in each other's gaze, Yilgrid's sharper and fiercer with every second, Merlin's unchanging. It's a frightfully convincing expression, reminding me of the conversation we had that night of the claim. Of how I accused him of not caring that he was a killer, and him never answering.

Or the cold blankness of his face as he dealt Foehart that killing blow.

A chilly kind of fear runs down my spine, now, wondering if this is the true inhumanity of the recruits: not their lack of control, animalistic rage or bloodlust as my father says, but their indifference.

"Yilgrid . . ." I start to stay, and her eyes rip from his, the light behind them feral now even as they meet mine, unchanging. It stuns me back into silence.

With angry jerks she dishes out another dollop of the meal, and right before handing it to me, spits in it.

I stare into the bowl, shocked. Its quick enough Audrey doesn't see, that she only looks up when she notices Yilgrid has vanished and I am frozen - and holding up the line.

Merlin ends up pulling me away, and still dumbstruck I find myself inconspicuously tugged out of sight from the morning crowd, back in the direction of our tent.

About halfway there, near the pig pens, I finally find my bearings and rip my arm out from his grip. "What do you think you're doing?" I hiss, and he locks his jaw, not answering. We stand in the middle of the path, glaring at each other. "You can never do that again, you hear?" I grit from my teeth. "You're never allowed to control me."

"I was trying to help," he says stonily, eyes cool. "You looked like an absolute idiot, standing there about to cry over your breakfast."

I glance down at the meal, grimacing again as I remember how Yilgrid defiled it, and make to throw it into the slop for the pigs.

"Wait!"

His cry startles me, and I turn back to see Merlin in the midst of composing himself, wiping smooth the desperation in his eyes. "Oh, you want this do you?" I raise up the bowl and see Merlin's eyes track its movement, confirming my suspicions despite his silence. It is tempting to simply fling the food to the ground, watch the despair flash in his expression and get satisfaction from the knowledge that we both have hurt each other this morning.

Then I remember his position, literally, how he kneels next to me while I eat and only gets the scraps of what I've been given.

Merlin must see the change in my expression. I feel an echo of both indignation and relief as I lower the bowl and hold it out to him. "Take it then," I shrug, and push it into his hands when they move too hesitantly. Merlin's face is flushed, though, embarrassed. He looks down at the food, throat bobbing once as he swallows, and all at once the sight of him practically staring in longing down at a defiled meal makes my stomach sick.

"Wait, where are you-?" he asks when I briskly start walking away, hurrying to catch up.

"Don't follow me," I say, the words coming out more desperate then commanding, but I hear his footsteps slowly stop. Without a glance backward I start running, my destination nowhere, or anywhere other than near him.

I can't stand it. Yilgrid's eyes, burning to the brim with hatred, never faltered as they looked on from Merlin to me, and that is what throbs inside me like an infected wound, puts that horrible burning behind my eyes more than Foehart's death ever could. The finality of this realization is what nips at my heels, urges me faster and farther away.

I've reached the border of the inner circle before I realize it - I probably would never have noticed if Nimueh hadn't suddenly appeared in my path. I barely slow down enough to not barrel straight into her as she stands there, motionless.

"What are you doing trying to leave the inner ring?" she cocks an eyebrow, lips curling in amusement as I come to a stop. "And without your recruit no less. Don't you know today is the day you must stand with Lord Uther as the last of the wounded arrive? At his right hand side of course, with Merlin at yours, a beacon of power to his _noble knights_."

Her voice drips sarcasm over every word, circling around me as I try to catch my breath. "Poor little lordling must find it so hard, failing his father day after day."

"And shouldn't you be there as well, at his _left_ hand?" I counter, ignoring the rage building in me at her words, and her smile widens.

"My duties as sentry over these boundaries will be finished shortly. Then yes, I will be." Nimueh's eyes glint as she leans in closer, whispering her next words: "Your duties, of course, will never be finished. Even to the day fate leaves you in your death."

"If you're threatening me," I start, stepping forward, and glare at her unchanged smug expression.

"You should not be away so far for so long. Think of his health at the least," she smiles, not clarifying anything, and disappears in a cloud of smoke. I snatch at the air, growling, feeling a new shot of anger. This time, undeniably laced with fear.

It is echoed with confusion, though, confusion and worry. Which is probably Merlin. I almost feel flattered he would spare an ounce of worry for me after everything, but it is a reminder of what Nimueh has already mentioned: I should be on the other side of inner camp, at the west border not the east, at my father's side. Perhaps even this very minute.

The worry, regardless if it is from Merlin or not, intensifies in the back of my head as I run the opposite direction from before, so strong I feel a shiver of it down my spine. _Calm down, I'm coming_ , I inwardly yell back, and to my surprise the feeling halts in its tracks.

Confusion temporarily becomes the forefront, and the slightest echo of the thought, _Was that you?_

 _Yes_ , I answer, practically as startled as him, but feel no reply.

The worry is at least toned down for the remainder of my journey, not so nearly overwhelming except the occasional pulse that feels more like _Hurry, hurry_.

Finally I reach the crowd, spying Uther, Nimueh and Merlin on a raised platform looking down at the newcomers. Nimueh smirks down at me, Merlin glances quickly at my father, who hasn't noticed yet. Jethro spots me trying to edge through the crowd, and bellows, "Make way for the lordling!"

My path immediately clears. I walk quickly through the masses, feeling my face heat horribly at the title ' _lordling_ ' being shouted so. The warmth drains from my face quickly, however, as I near the platform and see my father's expression: loose in posture but tight-lipped, eyes at half-mast but glinting dangerously as they settle on me.

"Sorry, sir," I breathe when I finally stand to the right of him.

His eyes do not leave the procession of soldiers being cheered as he answers. "I spoke of the better future ahead of us. Of your great weapon in the battles to come."

I gulp, wondering how soon Merlin and I will join the soldiers below. "I apologize for missing it, my lord. It was wrong of me to run off like I did."

"It was _childish_. Irresponsible, dangerous, and foolish," he countered, face unmoving but voice inflecting his true rage. "Ready your recruit, then come to my chambers after you've been in the people's eye long enough. To receive your punishment."

I nod too quickly, dread pooling in my stomach as he turns and walks down the platform's steps without another word. I feel Merlin's eyes on me to my left, and I struggle to maintain a smooth expression.

"What kind of punishment?" he asks, too loudly, and I shoot him a warning glare.

But Nimueh seems to have heard everything anyway. "Lashes, I presume. That is his lord's usual brand of punishment, in my experience."

Merlin pales, and Nimueh laughs. "Oh, likely not too many for the little lordling. And they'll disappear just as quickly, right Arthur?"

Merlin shoots me a disbelieving look as I struggle not to protest against the term ' _little lordling_.' Instead I change the subject. "Why do so many of the soldiers look like they've been fighting fire?"

It works - both Merlin and Nimueh turn to look at the men still filing through, some a bit less enthusiastically than others as the inhabitants of the Inner Ring cheer and clap. Much of their chain mail and capes are blackened, some of their hair singed or face marred by thick bandages.

"You missed their reports," Nimueh shrugs. "The front line has moved further west and northward. We're gaining ground."

"And so all the dragons in Camelot have finally begun to fight," Merlin finishes for her. His eyes betray how exciting the idea must sound to him.

It gives me no such thrill, the thought of battling a dragon on top of powerful swords and sorcerers and the other magical beasts they have already employed for use against us. Though my father has fought fire with fire in those respects, its a bit harder to _literally_ do so.

I head to my father's personal tent slowly, dreading the awful but painfully familiar reoccurrence. Nimueh's eyes glowing, the leather burning red for a brief moment, and then my hands tied up to one of Lord Uther's bed posts.

"Does your father . . . use this punishment often?" Merlin dares to ask as we near, pulling me from my dark thoughts.

The fear in his eyes is evident, though I suppose for once he doesn't feel the need to hide it from me. Regardless, I feel it echoing my dread as well. "Not on recruits," I answer shortly, sure that's his true question. "There's the punishment through the claim, for them.

"Its _Lord Uther_ to you, by the way," I remind just as we reach the tent's entrance, moving in the way to stop him. "Here."

I hold out my arms in a very telling way, and Merlin cocks a brow before linking his hands with mine. "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," I murmur, thinking of the broad action 'to heal.' Merlin's eyes flash and then fade. "This is where we separate."

He looks at me in a way I can't decipher. "Arthur, I don't know anything about healing. Just because you've 'aliesanned' it to me doesn't mean-"

"Go to the infirmary tent; find Gaius."

Merlin huffs a frustrated breath. "Us being separate is half of what got you in trouble in the first place!"

"I'll be headed there shortly myself," I say, and Merlin glares at me in response. But I say no more and, finally, he shrugs a shoulder, leaving without another word. I watch the back of him till he disappears from view, though there's no point in delaying any further. In fact, every second more I take will likely only anger my father further.

Steeling myself, I turn and enter.

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 **A/N: A longer chapter, yay! Maybe updates will get regular again!**

 **I don't know how many of you saw this coming, I kind of alluded to it in the first chapter but only briefly. Arthur's relationship with Uther has been presented as rather a conflicting one of both devotion and fear, or at least that is what I intended to come across, and now you get a piece of the 'why.' And maybe a bit more sympathy for Arthur...? I mean, I know he totally is not blameless in this story, but for being raised like this I'd say he's not too at fault.**

 **Thanks to all those who followed! Woohooo, no more awkward 69! Also, thanks for the reviews, I was surprised to hear from all of you guests especially - way to go!**

 **catherine10: This story is primarily on the Merlin/Arthur friendship, but you will be seeing more of Morgana :) They are fellow victims, so she definitely knows how he feels and, sad as it is, what he should expect. I hope you enjoyed this new update - thanks for taking the time to review!**

 **Guest: Morgana is a year-ish older than Arthur, who is 13. Merlin doesn't have an age, or at least doesn't really know it. Hunith could tell him but she's rather busy right now ;) Thanks for reviewing!**

 **Just A Reviewer: Yaaaaaay I'm glad you liked that quote. I can't claim it, unfortunately, I always draw inspiration from a song or two for my fics and that's what that line came from :D Merlin and Morgana will be allies in ways that Arthur can't be for Merlin, so although their relationship won't be the forefront of this story it will still be important over time. I TOTALLY get the whole school/holiday thing, December is a crazy busy month and I hardly updated during it anyway :) Thank you for leaving your awesome comments!**


	19. The Vessel

**19\. The Vessel**

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Summary: _I feel his anger as more of a deafening ringing than an echo, and Merlin's voice grows louder and more defiant with every word as he continues, "A vessel, that's what I'm supposed to be. Like my magic is just something that can be contained-measured and emptied and carried around by anyone!"_

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"I have been instructed to do nothing," I dimly hear as I regain consciousness. It is coupled with the feeling of pain however, the two fighting for dominance as the voice continues, "This is training for you, Merlin, no matter that . . ."

Pain wins, blinding me from sight or sound for long enough that I'm mercifully pulled back into unconsciousness.

The second time I hear or feel anything it's a flaying, a burning of my flesh that aches in a way that fire does not. Like my skin is stretching too fast, reproducing at a rate too high to be natural. A groan, mine, and the whisper, "Sorry, hold on, hold on . . ." and nothing else.

The third time I wake it's with my eyes blinking open, tongue heavy and stale in my mouth. There's the slightest taste of iron still from when I bit my tongue accidentally, and the darkness that makes me question whether my eyes are working properly.

I stir slightly, realizing I am in a cot in the infirmary not in my own bed, and accidentally knee something both hard and soft.

"Wha-?" I hear a voice, and a slight movement in the dark. Then the whisper, "Arthur? Are you awake?"

I realize I must have kneed his head. "Merlin?"

"Thank goodness." He breathes a sigh of relief.

"What, were you worried?" I tease without thinking, though his silence in answer reminds me that if I were to die it would mean the end for him as well.

Still, I was hardly near death this time. "I'm guessing you managed it."

"And how did you know?"

It's a broad question, but I can still guess what he really means: How did I know what my father meant by " _Ready your recruit_ "?

Perhaps simply because his punishments are brutal and memorable, but not long-lasting. The first, when I was three, was a caning that left welts on my backside. Used to Yalta's quick, stinging spanks, I cried hard enough to make myself sick. But before the hour was out he had Nimueh heal it so completely I felt better than I had before the punishment.

In the many years since my father has told me I am of a higher position and responsibility, and so will receive higher forms of punishment. Right before delivering it. Never evident on my unblemished skin of course - healed and rehealed by magic to leave out chance for physical scars - but evident one day when I join the ranks for battle. When I can prove I am no pampered lordson, but a soldier.

Perhaps even a worthy knight of Lord Uther.

"My back feels good as new, that's how," I answer in a completely different vein of thought, however, not willing to impart such information to Merlin. My words are a reminder of what he still carries, however, a nagging at the center of my chest telling me there is a piece missing. I imagine a far-away island on a calm lake, a golden sword pulled into its scabbard, and think _EMRYS_.

Merlin's form shivers slightly, like he immediately feels the difference. "Took you long enough."

I snort. "Took you long enough to use it."

The gripe is enough to distract him from what I don't say. "I'm rubbish at healing," Merlin admits, and my eyes have adjusted enough to see he is on a stool at my bedside, and must have originally fallen asleep there. "Once my friend fell from a tree and gashed his knee - when I tried fixing it, flowers grew from the wound instead." I laugh, surprising both Merlin and myself, and Merlin joins in a little before continuing, "He was scared out of his mind while I figured out how to undo it. Didn't know what was happening to him."

The image of Will screaming like a girl, flowers sprouting from his knee, has me laughing even more. Merlin looks pleased at my reaction, and we both grin at each other. "Will, right?" I say around my smile, sitting up a little.

"Yeah," Merlin nods. His smile fades.

I inwardly curse myself for mentioning it. "Should I be worried about anything growing out of my back, then?" I ask, hoping to get him laughing again, and Merlin rolls his eyes. Good enough. "I wouldn't be surprised, actually, considering the force of that storm you summoned our first time."

There's something uncomfortable in his tone as he responds, "It'd just been built up too long, I think, my magic."

"You're not supposed to say it," I respond automatically, and hear him scoff.

"What, _magic_? Oh right. Believe me, I learned. Muirden didn't just teach me spells, you know."

My curiosity wins out, and I sit up all the way in the cot. Merlin's face is mostly visible to my eyes now, hard and frowning again as usual. "Like what?"

He works his jaw, probably considering whether to answer at all. But to my surprise Merlin grits his teeth and speaks. "Stupid things. Calling you my 'guardian,' as if that suggests something more than a slave's master. Rules of the claim, of course: number one, that your enemies are my enemies, quite literally. Two, that your will is law or something ridiculous like that. Three, and definitely my most favorite: my duty is to be the vessel only- _that I am your weapon and nothing more_."

I feel his anger as more of a deafening ringing than an echo, and Merlin's voice grows louder and more defiant with every word as he continues, "A vessel, that's what I'm supposed to be. Like my magic is just something that can be contained - measured and emptied and carried around by anyone!"

"Shut up, Merlin," I shush him, my ears straining to make sure no one is coming.

"I'm saying it in front of you already, aren't I?" he hisses, though its at least quieter. "Its _my_ magic! Can't have a mind of my own, can I, though? I'm a thing, a sword your father is having sharpened. So I'd better get used to killing people like I did Foehart, right? That'll be my only _use,_ won't it?!"

The comment about Foehart stings, but not as much as it probably should. "Do you want someone else to catch you saying all this out loud?" I ask sharply, still worried.

Merlin laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. His tone entirely changes with the words, " _I'm a person_ , Arthur. I'm a person."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Hatred closes my throat. Not for Merlin, not for any person I can identify. For the world, and fate, and all its cruelties that brought the two of us here together in this moment.

"Do you hear me, Arthur?"

His voice is thick, as if said around tears. I don't answer. I can't.

Merlin lets out a sorrowful breath that cuts unnaturally short, and in the dark I can see his shoulders shaking. Followed by shallow breaths that keep hitching, and finally his high-toned, desperate words: "I'm a person. Say it, Arthur. _Say it_ : I'm a _person_!"

When I still don't respond he buries his head in his hands, crying without reserve. _Broken_ sounding. _Did I break him?_ a voice asks in my head - and something inside me finally snaps at that, quickens my brain into movement.

I pull my legs off the edge of the bed, and find his shoulders in the dark. Merlin stiffens at the contact mid-sob, rigid as my hands move to firmly press forward. His forehead ends up on my own shoulder, my shirt immediately dampening at the contact with the rest of his face. But when my arms are properly around the rest of his shaking torso Merlin just collapses into it.

Its some semblance of a hug.

Guardian and recruit. Master and slave. Criminal and victim.

The rest of his crying is quieter, less helpless at least, though my back is cramping from his weight by the time he stops hiccuping. Still Merlin doesn't pull away. I feel his emotion echoing mine in synchronization: tentative comfort, hope. Fear, that the latter will not be lasting.

My fear keeps me swallowing against my tight throat, unwilling to surrender to the burning in my eyes. I cannot allow myself. But I know I can at least attempt to assure his fear:

"Merlin," I murmur, my voice still sounding loud in such quiet, "You are a person."

* * *

 **A/N: See? I DO have a heart buried deep, deep, deep inside somewhere. Always happy to hear from you my friends!**

 **FairyGoatMother: As I've mentioned to one other person, my excuse for Uther's slight OOCness is that he's 'war-hardened,' lol. Or maybe I just love making him evil, it could really be that too. I'm glad you've been enjoying and hope you liked this new update! Thanks for leaving a review :D**


	20. Best Way

**20\. Best Way**

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Summary: " _Well done, my lord." The words rip me back into reality, enough that I see what I had not before: Sir Jethro just a few paces away wearing a proud expression. And to any bystander here the scene I've made is to be expected, applauded._

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The next morning winter's first frost decorates the camp grounds in fragile, white patterns, a deceptively-beautiful site I notice as I'm allowed to move back to my own tent. Merlin trails behind me as I walk. We haven't spoken a word to each other; there's a strange charge to the cold air, hovering between us since last night.

I try not to think too much of what the words I said implied. Of what my father would think if he heard me say them, or saw me comfort a recruit rebelling against the very doctrine of the claim. He wouldn't have done as I did, I remind myself - he'd have insisted on punishment, if he or anyone else overheard what Merlin said.

Of course, it's easy now to defend that I haven't yet learned how to punish through the claim. But once I have? My 'act of kindness' will likely only encourage Merlin's obstinacy, his disregard for authority and consequence. I imagine him getting brave enough to speak against Lord Uther, and repress a shiver. The best way to avoid pain and suffering is to be the best recruit he can be. So really nothing I've done has helped him; I've only made things worse.

As if to personify my dark, spiraling thoughts, Nimueh stands at the door of my tent as we approach, her hands clasped and expression smooth.

"I'm here to train you both," she states simply.

"But Arthur's just barely gotten out of the infirmary," Merlin protests immediately. It only confirms my worries.

"My name is not 'Arthur' to you," I snap, turning my head sharply to glare at him. It has the desired effect: he flinches in surprise, looking back at me in disbelief. "And if I have any trouble physically then I will have your half-arse job at healing to thank, _recruit_."

I turn back to Nimueh without waiting to see his reaction, knowing whatever semblance of a bond that we might have forged last night will be shattering just then in Merlin's eyes.

There's an echo of betrayal behind my own feelings of satisfaction and I hope, if Merlin does share my emotions as I seem to share his, he will not detect anything beneath that. "Follow me, then," Nimueh says, with an eyebrow raised as she looks at both of us.

We head to a grove of trees, left untouched by the bustling camp around it. The first day is merely information: telling Merlin never to avoid me 'sheathing,' as its termed, that all guardians can feel exactly what they have 'aliesanned' to their recruits. Telling me that it takes energy to use power of any sort, and not to overextend my recruit or else they will become useless to me.

"Tomorrow will be a history lesson on the claim," she says after about an hour, and turns to leave. I stand, dusting off my grass-stained trousers.

"I thought being trained by Nimueh would at least be exciting," Merlin sighs, doing the same.

"You don't know Nimueh then," I retort, "she takes great pleasure in torturing, no matter what form." Merlin smirks, and I feel the side of my mouth lift before I can stop it. Before I remind myself I can't encourage him.

The midday meal is still hours away, judging by the sun, and for a second I wonder if it would be unacceptable to leisure a little. Or experiment even, with the power I could give back to Merlin, see what amusing things he could do with it.

But none of that would do, I know. Being the son of Lord Uther has never equaled laziness, idleness. Training with Leon, that is an acceptable use of my time; the fact that Gaius suggested a week before physical exertion is of little relevance to a soldier.

I hold out my hands to Merlin, who stares at me for a second before linking them with his. When I aliesan the power 'to heal' back to him, his face switches from confused to alarmed. "Don't get worried for me now," I can't help but joke, and Merlin promptly rolls his eyes. "Till dinner you should go to the infirmary," I explain and start walking, knowing that keeping him at a distance will only improve things. Merlin catches up rather quickly, a puzzled look on his face.

"And why is that?"

"You said yourself you're rubbish at healing. Take it as a chance to get better - I don't have time to supervise you all day," I answer, ignoring Merlin's side-long glance at me as I speak.

"Fine," he says simply, and not till we approach the tent stops to speak again. "Arthur." I stop begrudgingly, raising an eyebrow at him. "Arthur, I know you're scared of your father, but -"

My sudden, bruising grip on his arm cuts Merlin short, his eyes widening in surprise. "Never say anything like that again," I warn him, and push him to his knees with a wrench of my arm for good measure. My heart is beating erratically, knowing what I'm doing can't be taken back.

But he doesn't lower his gaze like I'd expected. Instead Merlin's blue eyes bore up into mine, assessing instead of angry, curious instead of cowed. _And maybe you're afraid of me_ , a voice intrudes into my head, and I release Merlin's arm like my hand's been burned, scalded instead of my mind.

"Well done, my lord." The words rip me back into reality, enough that I see what I had not before: Sir Jethro just a few paces away wearing a proud expression. And to any bystander here the scene I've made is to be expected, applauded.

"Go," I bark at Merlin, jerking my head towards the infirmary, and without a glance at me or Jethro he hurries into the tent. Then I turn back to Jethro, nodding once at him and make to leave.

"Wait," he says, and approaches to clap a firm hand on my shoulder. "I'm headed to a council your father has called. I think you should come, my lord."

I almost go slack-jaw. It's unsettling, these sudden contradictions between what I want to be punished for and what I'm rewarded for, and vice versa - but still the thought of standing at Lord Uther's council table and being met with acceptance rather than judgment is a staggering thought. Dazed, I let Sir Jethro guide me to the meeting.

Of course, once I stand among the men waiting for my father's presence I can feel my knees going weak. Just because Sir Jethro invited me doesn't mean the warlord will approve. I imagine his gray, colorless eyes flicking to me and pray for a quick dismissal, not another blow, another slash in my back, another slash of leather on skin, again, _please don't_ , again, _please no more_ , again, _please father!_ -

Lord Uther enters from the back of the tent, nodding to all of us and not even double-taking at my presence. I breathe out slowly and discreetly wipe the sweat from my palms. "Thank you all for coming," Uther says before sitting, and we all follow.

"Sir Oswald, report," he gestures to the old knight, who nods grimly.

"According to Sir Gellert's letter, the front line is five leagues closer to Camelot's citadel. Death total on our end this year has been a total of 24 knights, 83 soldiers, and around 42 recruits. That would bring down their total to 54, almost half since the spring."

"Is that so?" the warlord says, expressionless.

"Yes, my lord. It was when the dragons started fighting, apparently, that the recruit casualties spiked so high."

"We'll need to start recruiting in the Druid's camps again, and more in Cenred's kingdom to make up the loss," Sir Jethro points out, to the right of me, and my father nods.

"True. I will have my two recruits define where to make our search. You can take Sir Foehart's place in charge of those missions, Sir Jethro," the warlord decides. Sir Jethro's lips twitch as he bows his head in acquiescence.

"And what of the dragons? Is it their strength, their fire that reduces our weapons to crumbling?" Uther frowns, glancing around the table. It takes me a moment to remember what he really means by 'weapons.'

Sir Redney, the younger knight, answers: "I've spoken with many of the wounded knights who have returned from the front no longer with a recruit. Many of them claim the dragons weren't targeting the knights but the recruits themselves, which no one was prepared for."

"Strange," another knight frowns. "I suppose practicality over sentimentality? The recruits are our greatest weapons in this fight."

"Perhaps," Lord Uther says. "In the meantime I will have the Lady look into a method possible to proof armor or leather from fire. Now, let's move on to supplies and production of our serfs. Sir Gallan?"

The rest of the meeting is much less interesting - full of reports on storage and supplies for the on-setting winter. Near the end Lord Uther declares, "Thank you all for your participation. Afterwards I would like to speak with you, Sir Redney, you Sir Blake, and you, Soldier."

It again takes me a moment to realize who he means, and I belatedly respond after the others, "Yes, m'lord."

There's nothing to read from Lord Uther's face as he nods and announces, "Council dismissed."

* * *

 **A/N: And the story continues! Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who responded to last chapter. Honestly it was one of my favorites to write, so it was simply heartwarming to hear you enjoyed it as well :D Nice to see all of you new followers as well!**

 **Just a Reviewer: YAAAAAY that was the goal, lol. It was about time Merlin got some comfort, however fleeting. And regarding him and Morgana, expect it to be subtle at first but very constant :) Just because this makes me strangely happy, THANK YOU for saying 'Poor Arthur,' not just poor Merlin, since he's my protagonist and POV I'm writing through I happen to be a big advocate for the don't-blame-Arthur bandwagon. So feel free to jump on! Thanks for leaving a review, its great to hear from you!**

 **FairyGoatMother: Maybe I had a heart once and remember how it felt in place of the current empty void, or at least enough to make all my reader's hearts throb! Feel free to boo hiss Uther every time, he's a nasty fellow. Glad to hear from you again, and hope you enjoyed this new chapter :)**


	21. To Protect

**21\. To Protect**

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Summary: _It's both relieving and slightly irritating, knowing this whole time Merlin has indeed been privy to my feelings no matter how concealed they appear._

* * *

I say practically nothing to Merlin at midday meal, or the rest of the day and into the week. About my meeting with my father, or in general. We lay in uncomfortable silence each night, me trying to ignore the echo of emotions that range from worry to annoyance to boredom, and occasionally to fear - from the first time Nimueh tells us the stories.

"A history lesson," she described it as, and yet it bears little resemblance towards one. In short terms, everything horrible that has ever happened to an obstinate recruit. Ranging from bad to grotesque: recruits trying to manipulate the power aliesanned back to them for a different purpose and instead feeling their body seize as the claim bound tighter, burned thicker marks that traveled all across their body. Recruits trying to kill their guardians and inevitably failing, and afterwards being punished so severely they died from the pain itself. Recruits trying to be rid of such marks by cutting off each other's arms to no avail - the two were sent to the infirmary where Muirden set about slowly, excruciatingly painfully, growing their arms back.

Apparently even magic can't accomplish everything. Muirden was unsuccessful; the recruits were deemed useless and 'disposed' of.

Merlin seems nauseated a good two hours after her vivid descriptions of such matters, which Nimueh claims she witnessed firsthand, and empties out his stomach that night before going to bed. I can't blame him; if not for Lord Uther's assignment weighing on my mind I might be just as disturbed. Instead it presses down at the back of my head in every spare moment, a reminder that in the coming weeks things will change. Soon, everything will change.

"Once a recruit has mastered the basic elements of the claim and how to wield their guardian's power, they join the divisions for training. Sentry duties, if assigned to stay in Camp and guard the Inner Ring, or duties of a soldier at the front line," she explains to us one morning, after having Merlin practice 'reading my intent.' Its a long morning of throwing random commands from my head and seeing how quick Merlin can respond before she lets us rest.

"And how long, till I've mastered all that?" Merlin asks tentatively, both with curiosity and fear.

"There is no need for you to master what you've been born with, it would seem," she says, smirking, "only to teach you the words for harnessing it, towards your guardian's different objectives. Not long, I would think."

Merlin glances at me, unsure of how to take this news. Even a day ago, I wouldn't have been quite sure either. Would it be better for Merlin to interact with, even befriend some of his kind? If it made life more pleasant for him?

Even in the knowledge of the number of recruit casualties reported from the front line?

Now, with my father's sentence over our heads I know it would not; even if he was miserable with only me for company, Merlin would be safer here.

And he most certainly is miserable hearing the news of more recruiting. Sir Jethro organizes parties out, both for identification and retrieval, and Leon among others is called to go by the end of the week across various areas of Camelot and beyond. "My mission is being sent to one of the larger druid settlements," he tells me after our sword exercises, the last one before his departure. "A couple hundred apparently."

"Shouldn't more of you be going, then? When they fight back?" I question, and he shakes his head.

"They'll run, of course, flee and disappear and scatter like the four winds, but fight?" Leon looks down briefly with a drawn brow, meeting my eyes the next second to say, "No. I don't think that will be the problem, Arthur."

When his mission returns they bring back three gagged, wide-eyed and tightly-bound peasants. Two older women and one young man, who looks more frightened than angry out of the three.

"So it isn't usual procedure in recruiting to force your victims unconscious?" Merlin asks faintly, the words joking but his tone far from it as we see Morgana lead and several knights pass with the three in tow. In fact, he looks a little nauseous again.

"We originally went on a scouting mission, actually, not a retrieval. That was improvisation on Sir Foehart's part," I tell him honestly. _And on my part as well_.

Merlin startles slightly, as if he heard my unspoken words regardless. But then he goes back to magically polishing my armor on the stumps where we both sit, not mentioning it out loud. I bite my lip and refrain from bringing up the subject either. With the day Uther assigned me drawing closer I am afraid to say anything that could be endangering what is already an undesirable, but inevitable future.

Instead I speak to someone I can trust - sneaking to see Morgana in between training and sparring."Arthur?" she says as I enter, in the holding tent of the three future recruits. All of them lie in restless and possibly unnatural sleep in cots similar to the infirmary, though there's a strange burnt smell emitting from them. Her small hands are just finishing tying a straw poppet, their nimble movements slowing to a stop.

"Morgana," I nod, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. Not counting the past two interactions, we really haven't spoken in two years. Not since her father's death triggered her magic, and my father declared my friend dead. And punished her the first and last time I was found to be showing her kindness.

"What is it you need, _lordling,_ " Morgana folds her arms across her chest now, cocking an eyebrow at me.

"To ask you a question. I've been . . . experiencing, I guess, something strange with Mer-my recruit," I correct quickly. "And neither Muirden nor Nimueh have mentioned such a thing about the claim."

She leans forward, staring at me with intrusive eyes. "And you could not ask his lordship . . . ?"

I breathe a harsh sound out in frustration, glaring down at her. "Because in the case it is not a natural phenomenon of the claim I would - would not have my father _worried_ , of course, and take drastic measures."

"You speak with too much vagueness," Morgana leans back, shrugging. "What are you here to ask me?"

"Has Lord Uther mentioned being able to, well, noticing he could . . ." I bite my lip, not sure how exactly to put it.

When I don't continue the girl huffs out a frustrated breath. "Feel my emotions, and I, feel his back?" she guesses bluntly, and at least half of my worries deflate.

"Oh," I breathe, "so the claim does that then." It's both relieving and slightly irritating, knowing this whole time Merlin has indeed been privy to my feelings no matter how concealed they appear. Though Morgana did not mention the ability to hear actual thoughts.

Morgana stares at me for a good minute, and then pulls her mouth into a strange, half-hearted smile. "No, m'lord," she says rather softly, "No. Actually, that is something I've only heard of once before."

"What are you talking about?" I demand, wary of the sudden kindness in her eyes.

"Sharing emotions, or whatever you experience - I was approached by Merlin about it not long after he was bound to you. I have never heard of it before, and couldn't tell him if it was mutual for you. Though the second you started describing it just now I guessed correctly."

I swallow, struggling to take this in. "And what did Merlin say?"

"He asked why, or how, and I told him what I'll tell you now," Morgana says, and her expression immediately darkens. "The only thing that matters is Lord Uther will think it mind control and deem Merlin unfit for service, if he finds out. And dispose of him. So if anywhere inside you, Arthur, there is _a shred of pity_ for Merlin and our kind you will not speak another word on this subject again. For his sake."

One of the sleeping druids stirs, relieving me of her weighted stare for a second long enough that I can respond. "I won't," I tell her as she crouches at the side of the unconscious young man.

"Good," Morgana nods once, before turning her attention to the poppet in her hands and uttering an indiscernible chant. The poppet lights a fire, much like her eyes, and I watch in curiosity as Morgana quickly puts the smoking poppet under the cot. "I think it best you leave now."

When it is merely three days from the morning my father has determined our departure, it only grows harder to explain to Merlin what is about to happen. Nimueh trains us each morning, her lessons growing more advanced and less boring by the day, and afterwards I have him spend a large portion of the afternoon in the infirmary. Too often she adds that there is little left necessary to be taught, but Merlin does not seem to understand what that implies.

I enter the infirmary tent, still wrestling with the right words to tell him exactly that when I stop at the sight in front of me.

Merlin kneels at the bedside of a soldier and is in the process of unwrapping a bloodied leg wound. ". . . the raiders came for the harvest. Big, ugly weapons to match their ugly faces. Once my mum had to stuff our grain in my pillow and have me act like I had the plague, so they wouldn't go near me. But that was the worst of it - I'd never heard there was such unrest in Camelot," he's saying.

Every cot is filled with wounded from the front, all of whom are in some degree watching or listening as Merlin speaks with avid interest. Others as well; Gaius, resting on a stool, Muirden covertly paying attention as he tends to another patient, Guinevere the serf girl holding the soldier Merlin is helping by the hand. Everyone listens and watches Merlin as he speaks as if captivated, and when he pauses to murmur a few strange words, eyes flashing briefly, the deep cut in the man's bruised calf oozes out an impure liquid.

Merlin dabs it away and raises his head with a pleased smile, only to make eye contact with me. "Arthur," he says in surprise, still subconsciously not following the rules.

All of the wounded soldiers immediately shift back in their cots however, as if the presence of Lord Uther's son has reminded them of their place. Of Merlin's place.

Not the young man Merlin's just healed, however. He watches me with dark, assessing eyes as I respond, "Are you finished here? My armor is need of polishing."

Merlin nods, making to stand, when Guinevere catches at his sleeve. " _Thank you_ so much, Merlin," she tells him fervently, and the soldier nods in agreement. At that moment I realize the two must be related, though the resemblance isn't too noticeable.

"Feel better, Soldier Elyan," Merlin grins to him and waves a goodbye to all of the wounded before joining me outside.

"You seem rather content there," I observe aloud, and he shrugs. But his eyes are too bright to be flippant.

"I've gotten better at healing, like you hoped," he responds with.

"Not just that." I shake my head, giving Merlin a look he doesn't seem to understand. "You are aware it's Muirden's job to assist Gaius with the Inner Ring infirmary?"

Merlin's face turns down in an annoyed frown. "And you were the one who sent me there in the first place."

"I know. It's just . . . never mind. Keep walking." I grit my teeth, unable to say anymore.

Soon we've made it back to my tent, Merlin closing the flap behind him as I sit on my bed. "There it is," I gesture vaguely at the pile of armor in the corner of the tent, though he barely glances at it before approaching me. I frown as he nears, cautioned by the intensity still there in the sorcerer's eyes.

"I've been talking with Morgana for some time," Merlin starts, standing in front of where I'm hunched over. I look up at him with a frown. He stares at me in concentration, and suddenly I hear: _Yes, another recruit. Trying to get answers._

A gasp escapes me without my permission, and I clamp hands over both of my ears in shock. But the sound didn't come from my ears. "Never do that again," I tell him, angry now. "Do you realize what my father would think it means?"

"I don't give a damn what Uther thinks," Merlin says brazenly, and my heart stops cold.

He could be burned alive for such impudence.

"You don't give a damn about your own life, then?" I shoot back once I've recovered, rising up to meet his challenging eyes. They don't waver.

"You're weak, Arthur," Merlin says, jutting out his chin in defiance. "I can't blame you for being raised weak. But I _can_ blame you for what I can feel your heart knows but your head won't listen to."

"You can't talk like this, _don't you understand_?" I grab both his shoulders, ready to shake the sense back into him.

"You won't tell your father. You haven't yet, have you?"

"That's not the point - "

"Stop trying to fight it!" Merlin wrenches his body from my grip suddenly, eyes wide with a brightness that scares me now. "Stop _forcing_ yourself to act like _him_!"

I stare at him, heart in my throat, and for a moment Merlin smiles hopefully at my expression. "See? You know I'm right. You're not like him. You've protected me, Arthur."

"You don't understand," I start weakly, shaking my head, and stumble back to the side of my bed. I look at him in despair, watch the growing confusion replace the hope on Merlin's face, and everything sinks inside me with my next words.

"I can't protect you from anything."

He immediately shakes his head, starting, "You already -"

" _Mer_ lin, shut up for one second. Please just listen to me." I swallow thickly when he stays silent, willing the words into my mouth. Finally I manage it. "I'm so sorry. Merlin, we're going to the front line."

* * *

 **A/N: dun Dun DUUUNN. Drama. My specialty, I guess. Lol. Yay for longer chapters, however belated in arrival! Can't wait to hear what you guys think.**

 **catherine10: Sorry to disappoint, though the real history of the claim won't be long in coming, I swear! Thanks for reviewing :D**

 **FairyGoatMother: Well good! And yes, it very much was a setup for this next string of events headed their way. What comes next is a turn in the current story arc - so I hope you enjoy where it takes them! Thanks for leaving your comments, always appreciated.**


	22. Found Out

**22\. Found Out**

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Summary: _A million fears rush straight up my throat, immobilizing my tongue. How much has he heard? How much will he tell? How much pain will my idiocy cost us both?_

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The bell for supper sounds just then, though Merlin does not react; he stares at me, uncomprehending. Finally he speaks. "What does that mean?"

A sudden burst of frustration shoots through me and I smack a fist into my bedding, retorting, "What do you think it means! Is there any place in that head of yours you use to _think_?"

Merlin clenches his jaw and takes a breath before responding. "Calm down and just tell me."

I laugh, a hoarse sound. "How else can I say it? _My father_ is sending us there. He's decided to have a mission go out to inspect the area a few leagues closer to the front line, now that it's moved. A group of knights will be going."

"But that's not -"

"Let me finish," I continue sharply, and he closes his mouth with an audible click. "After they scope out the new land the party will be split in half. Some will be headed back - and some returning to the front line for the rest of the winter. My father wants me to go with them, to lift the soldiers' spirits with a show of my 'great weapon.'"

Merlin swallows. "Your 'great weapon?'" he repeats numbly.

I look down at my feet as I nod. "Yes. To confirm the rumors that have been spreading even among the recruits. He says you can finish your training there, with them."

"Arthur . . ." Merlin slumps to sit next to me. We sit for a minute in silence, together in our misery. Finally he lifts his head, shakes it in disbelief. "I'm not a soldier. I can't fight, or - or kill, whatever anyone else believes. And you, you're not even a squire yet! How can he expect us . . . ?"

"The winters are usually stagnant, as far as battles go," I say, though the words have done little to assure myself. "Its supposed to be a show, a tactic to make the recruits who are left more confident."

"What do you mean by 'the recruits who are left?'" Merlin immediately asks, grabbing my shoulder in a tight grip when I grimace and try to look away. "What does that mean? _Tell_ me."

"The dragons killed a, well, a large portion of them at the least," I sigh, my eyes shutting closed at Merlin's intake of breath.

"The _dragons_?" he repeats in a hushed voice.

"Yes. Regardless, we're leaving two nights from now." I nudge at the helmet next to my foot, remembering that warm autumn day so many weeks ago. Merlin was nothing more than some dirty boy who was good at ball.

Now he's my father's secret weapon.

I snap my head up when out of nowhere Merlin laughs. He meets my confused expression with a slightly deranged amusement to his eye, explaining, "At least I will be far away from Lord Uther. We both will be."

I look down and shake my head, unable to agree. Being close to my father is a frightening thing - being away from him in the seasons he spends directing the front line have never been a relief from the ghostly feeling of eyes, watching me. Always assessing me.

But Merlin doesn't seem to need an answer; he briefly claps a hand on my shoulder before rising. "Well, _guardian,_ the bell for supper already sounded. We might as well get there before the meal's gone."

Supper turns out a quiet affair, my father not appearing and most everyone hurrying to get out of the cold the moment they received the rationed helpings. I plan the same, shivering under my fur coat, and Merlin hurries behind me, arms wrapped around himself against the icy wind.

"If we weren't leaving we'd still be moving from this tent," I tell him once we're back under shelter, careful not to bite my tongue as my shivering jaw moves. "Its getting too cold for just furs. I've always ended up in a tent of knights and recruits every winter, together for more warmth."

Merlin ties the flap closed tightly from the chilling wind, nodding. "Makes sense," he says once he's finished lighting a few candles, standing back and bouncing up and down in my old shoes. "I'm still surprised recruits stay in the same tent as their masters, though. Thought you would be clapping me in irons to some dungeon to sleep in, that first night."

I huff. "That's ridiculous. Besides, we don't need dungeons here."

"Oh no, I suppose you're right. The claim is a very effective kind of prison," Merlin says, in a surprisingly flippant tone.

"I meant that recruits are supposed to be close by, for both their guardian's protection and their own," I defend, and Merlin shrugs.

"Supposed to be," he repeats, and stops his bouncing to say, "Doesn't mean a person magic or no couldn't still use their own two hands and strangle their kidnapper."

I can't stop my eyes from going wide; Merlin's expression betrays no hint of amusement, like he's seriously considered such an idea. I feel my shoulders tremor slightly, and not just from the cold. "They'd have to be ready to give up their own life. Would you think the price worth it?" I manage in a surprisingly steady voice.

But I realize I shouldn't have asked when he smiles a bitter smile back at me. "Would you?"

Just then there's a faint clearing of the throat, startling us both, and a voice from the other side of the door that I recognize as Leon's:

"Permission to enter?"

A million fears rush straight up my throat, immobilizing my tongue. How much has he heard? How much will he tell? How much pain will my idiocy cost us both?

But its Leon, I'm able to remind myself after another moment. Leon, my only friend and ally now that Yilgrid despises the sight of me. I find the words, "Yes, one moment," and motion for Merlin to re-open up the flap he so painstakingly tied shut.

After a bit of fumbling on Merlin's part Leon is able to duck inside, damp and shivering and shouldering a drenched cape I know must be new, in honor of his recent mission's success.

"I heard you are to leave," Leon says, swiping wet curls out of his eyes. I nod, and his mouth lifts into a tentative half-smile. "Congratulations are in order, then. I would much rather be at the front than here, among these half-dead soldiers."

"I would much rather you were there as well," I tell him honestly, realizing how little appeal sword training will hold without a friend. "Although I wouldn't wish the danger on anyone."

"His lordship wouldn't send you there if it wasn't safe," Leon's smile all at once dampens, and he continues, "According to my father, Lord Uther said he trusted you with the task after great consideration. A mission to prove your capability, handling the great weapon he has given you."

A large crash draws attention to Merlin, who looks to have been picking up my discarded armor after all. His face is sheet white, however, as he bends to pick up the gauntlet that made the noise. Leon turns narrowed eyes back to mine and says, "May I speak with you privately, Arthur?"

I open my mouth only to close it, hesitating.

"Perhaps your recruit knows the temporary deafening spell?" he suggests, cocking an eyebrow when I still haven't responded.

Merlin does; we learned it a week before with Nimueh, a convenience to keep recruits close but not too close. He hated every second of it, I could tell, but that goes for most of her lessons.

 _I'd rather be out in the rain._ I jump, the words suddenly intruding in my head, but I don't hesitate a second longer before responding, "No. I'd rather he just left." I nod once at Merlin, who unties the door flap yet again and slips out.

The tension in Leon's shoulders seems to bleed out the second Merlin is out of sight. "Arthur," he says, stepping forward with a terribly concerned expression. "Has it . . . tried, before, to kill you? Are you alright? You mustn't be afraid even of Lord Uther's disappointment to get help if it starts-"

"Stop, stop Leon, I'm fine," I interrupt, though his brows only draw closer together as he shuts his mouth. "My recruit . . . he's a stupid peasant, remember? Doesn't know what he's saying half the time."

"Most people know what they're saying when they threaten murder," Leon says, jaw clenching. "I heard you two speaking; don't think this is uncommon. Recruits are born with that kind of evil in them. Don't think you're weak because of it, either - even my father's recruit once knocked him unconscious and tried to flee. She came crawling back on all fours, two days later, half-dead from fighting the claim's pull."

"He's nothing I can't handle," I shrug, trying for nonchalance.

"You think that, until its too late," Leon says, his eyes fearful but a bit distant, as if recalling some horror. He blinks a few times, seeming to come back to himself, and shudders. "On the mission to the druid camp, some of them refused to fight. We couldn't tell which were powerful or not; they wouldn't show us, just stood there waiting to get slaughtered. Not all of them - most ran. But one older man, he was laughing after Sir Gallan stabbed him. Then, it looked to be his son, he started fighting with a bit of magic and the older man out of nowhere threw Sir Gallan off his feet. He died soon after, but still."

I swallow thickly. "My recruit hasn't tried anything like that. He's all talk, really. Nothing more."

Leon frowns and sighs, nodding. "I hope you're right. I fear for you, I must admit, especially far away at the front line like you'll be. That's what I came here to say originally: be careful. Even if there are no attacks made by Camelot, there are still reports of ruffians and rogue druids trying to attack our supply trail. And, I know how things consume you sometimes. You can't let anything you see or anything that happens there do that."

I try for a grin, responding, "I'll pray that dragons hibernate during the winter."

"Good." Leon grins back, clapping a hand on my shoulder before moving to leave. "Your recruit should, at least," he smirks, turning in time to miss the grin wipe from my face.

Merlin replaces him in the tent, sopping wet. He tries to tie the door closed a final time, but his hands are shaking too badly.

I sigh, grabbing an old tunic and stopping his fumbling fingers with the words, "Let me."

Merlin sits back on his haunches and I throw the tunic at him, shooing the boy away to tie the slippery cords together. When I stand and turn he's pulling his arms through the sleeves of the shirt with a haste that comes only from bare skin exposed to cold air. "I don't feel bad for you, even if you catch a fever," I tell him bluntly as I dress as well. Merlin snorts, shaking his head and rolling out his bedding. "You blatantly ignore my warnings and then go so far as to outwardly threaten me, expecting there to be no consequences."

"There weren't," Merlin shrugs, still not getting it. He's shivering, but nonchalant. "You won't say you're not like your father, but you haven't denied it either."

"That doesn't matter." The words have to be gritted from between my teeth, and I glare at him frostily as I move to the candles. "Leon heard us. Heard _you_." Merlin's eyes widen comically just as I blow them out.

Its not for a few minutes that I hear him answer, me now buried under a large amount of furs and blankets.

"He's like you, then," his voice says softly.

I scoff into the cold air above me. "No, he is not 'like me,' whatever that is supposed to mean. He suggested I tell my father and only relented when I succeeded in convincing him how much of an incapable idiot you are."

"See? You do protect me." Merlin's tone is different now - almost a bit smug.

"Yes, and in return you threaten to kill me," I shoot back, and the silence that follows feels quite satisfactory.

I'd assumed he dozed off when Merlin speaks again. "I didn't really entertain the idea, with you, after having it. But . . ."

I sigh. "What?"

"Arthur, maybe I could. Maybe kill _him_. If you let me."

The blood in my vein freezes. Because I know exactly who Merlin is referring to. "You said you couldn't be a killer, remember?" I say, thinking that will be the end of it.

But I hear him turn over in his bedding, and respond, "I already am one."

* * *

 **A/N: Um. Hiiiii. Sorry for turning into a very unreachable ghost. I'm really lame, you guys. In my defense, I had to add a few things to this chapter and in effect, things in coming chapters. Plus school plus homework plus LIFE. So just be glad you're not dealing with LifeIndeed writing these updates from scratch like I have in the past, because my old readers can tell you it could take MONTHS. Lol. Nawww, I know you guys are a patient, awesome bunch so don't feel the need to defend yourself, just pretend I'm not talking. Here, I'll just turn around and face the wall, zip the lip.**

 **Though I might take a peek at your reviews, because I've missed you all so much. (Also ignore that sentiment, gross.)**

 **...** **I'm in a strange mood tonight, so maybe just disregard this whole a/n. Thanks! ;)**

 **catherine10: First of all, THANKS! That's really kind of you. Secondly, I totally just ruined my rep for being a good updater but thank you anyways! I will try to live up to my name again and get these edited and cranked out at a good rate. Thanks for leaving your thoughts :)**

 **Just A Reviewer: Can't say much about the dragonlord thing, though I don't blame you for asking! I'm glad you enjoy Arthur's POV, I definitely do ;) Though that's probably not surprising, haha! I have always thought of Merlin in that way too, a lover not a fighter. Though regarding romantic love, I really can't say much (again). Basically don't hold your breath, but don't disregard the idea! I'm working on Part 2 of this story currently and it could totally be in the cards. Thank you for your review!**


	23. Golden Cage

**23\. Golden Cage**

* * *

Summary: _I can't even focus on the task at hand. I start instead envisioning Merlin's magic, a golden, swirling cloud of energy, barred behind my rib cage. Wondering what kind of power could force all of it in another body - and what kind of sorcerer would ever agree to perform it._

* * *

The next morning, following my last sword lesson, is the worst training session to date.

Nimueh's expression is tight-lipped and strained as I join her and Merlin in the usual grove. Merlin is gnawing on his lip, the slightest of tremors visible in his shoulders when I get close enough. His face is pale, trepidation and fear echoing my confusion.

"What's going on?" My eyes glance back and forth between them, Merlin looking down at his shoes.

its not until then that I notice what should have been my first observation: to the right of the two recruits, sitting with legs wide and a half-lidded, uninterested expression, is Lord Uther himself.

"I've been preparing your recruit for today's training," Nimueh says, pulling my eyes away from my father, and she lifts her chin. "This will be one of the last lessons before you would be assigned duties to protect the campaign, if you were a knight. As you are not -"

"As he is not he will still be headed to the front line, so that matters little," my father interrupts, and I am surprised to see Nimueh's eyes widen.

Her brow draws down, though she seems to contain whatever emotion is trying to manifest and continues. "Regardless, you cannot truly be guardian over your recruit without this last lesson."

I turn to Merlin automatically, reaching out my hands and grabbing his at his side to interlock when Merlin does not follow my example. Merlin opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, but closes it quickly and swallows. Which is when Nimueh moves to stand in front of our entwined hands and with a laugh of derision cuts our connection in half, ripping my hands from Merlin's with one sweep of her arm. "Really," she says, the next laugh fracturing halfway out of her mouth. "You expect it to be that easy?"

"What are you going to teach us?" I can't help asking when she only keeps laughing, glaring at her.

Nimueh's eyes flash, her already twisted smile only twitching once to turn into a scowl. "Get on your knees, recruit, and brace your hands forward," she growls, out of nowhere shoving Merlin to the ground. I open my mouth only to shut it when the woman continues, "You'll end up there anyway."

Merlin sits up, looking from her to Uther uncertainly. I can't help but stare either; I've never seen my father's recruit so unhinged. Random strands of her usually-slicked dark hair have fallen into her eyes, which look wild and unsteady. Her body looks drawn and strung as tight as a chord.

"Have you already forgotten my instruction?" she hisses at him, a few strands waving in front of her face from the force the words are said with.

Merlin slowly shakes his head, and without once glancing at me turns into a crouch position. He bows his head, leaving only the expanse of his spine exposed for view. His shoulders still shake, ever-so-slightly, and I stare. Its a position of . . . submission, to say the least, and my stomach should be rolling. I should be sick, that Merlin has stationed himself like this, but all I feel is numb. Nimueh looks at Uther, who nods his approval.

She turns to me now, though I can't rip my eyes off Merlin's prone backside. Perhaps because I know what I'm about to learn. "The rest is up to you, little lordling," she says. "My Lordship?"

The warlord nods, stepping closer to join our area of the grove with the kind of emotionless expression that leaves me sweating, anticipating, fearing. Nimueh bows her head, and after a loaded few seconds something indescribable crackles in the air. Nimueh's entire body stiffens, head thrown back with a pain-filled expression. Uther blinks, seemingly doing nothing. But eventually he must have relented; her shoulders sag forward, entire body drooping in relief. Uther turns to me with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "You've seen it before, Soldier, but now you must learn. How to inflict punishment through the claim. Your first step is to feel where in your core the impurity resides," he says, tapping at his chest.

"Im . . . purity, sir?" I ask.

"Yes. Where it starts burning when you aliesan, the black power trying to be released," Lord Uther explains, almost taking on a proud tone near the end.

I nod, and close my eyes in concentration. But there's a strange amount of resistance, as I search the nerves making up feeling in my chest. I know in theory where it is, but I do not know how to voluntarily feel it. "Have you found that place?" my father asks, interrupting my concentration.

"Not yet, sir," I admit.

"Then think of the moment of aliesan. When you feel the slightest amount of release as it transfers. Then remember where it began."

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to imagine. To will the memory of such a feeling into the present. It is clear, after a minute of head-pounding concentration, that I am no closer. Lord Uther sighs, a slow, disappointed sound that has me suppressing a shudder, and slowly draws nearer. He only stops when he has reached me.

A large, dominating hand presses onto my shoulder, nearly caving my stance under its pressure. In my ear Uther breathes the words, "Is there a limit to your incompetence?" so that I alone hear them. I can't understand why, even as my fingers tremble and my knees feel weak - why such words are intimately for my ears alone.

"Keep practicing," he says louder after stepping away, the hand lifting off from my shoulder. But the pressure won't seem to ease.

"Yes, sir," I croak, bowing my head obediently.

"I have duties to attend to. If need be, have Gaius demonstrate, but make sure by dusk that this has been mastered," he tells Nimueh. Then, with the quieting swish of the Pendragon cape trailing on the dead leaves behind him, Lord Uther leaves us.

But the numb feeling does not leave. Maybe that is why, after nearly an hour of method and practice, there is absolutely nothing to show for it. And, when one becomes two, Nimueh's strained composure stretches to its breaking point.

"Try again," she says through gritted teeth when I've aliesanned a little of Merlin's magic back to him, felt the burn of it releasing in small portion, and immediately taken it back again. "Merlin, take your position."

But I can't seem to summon awareness of the claim in this way without actively using it. It doesn't feel a part of me; the magic has always seemed an entity entirely focused in binding Merlin, even if it is technically using me to do so.

After another few minutes of closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and trying to tune my mind to my body, I can't even focus on the task at hand. I start instead envisioning Merlin's magic, a golden, swirling cloud of energy, barred behind my ribcage. Wondering what kind of power could force all of it in another body - and what kind of sorcerer would ever agree to perform it.

"I can't," I finally say, blinking away from my musings. _Is there a limit to your incompetence,_ Uther's words play in a repeating circle around my head. But I don't expect Nimueh's reaction.

She twists her mouth into a nasty, disfigured smile, eyes boring into mine with intent. "Is the lordling feeling a bit soft? Hopeful? Kind?" she says in a soft voice, and starts walking toward Merlin. He looks up at her warily, half out of the submissive position with his head up and back straight. "Well, little lordling?"

"We can try again in an hour," I say. "Maybe I'm overthinking it."

Nimueh's grin turns feral; she says, "Yes, you are," and suddenly rams a hard kick into Merlin's side.

He gasps in surprise, grasping at his ribs with shaking hands. His sleeves are glowing, and suddenly I can feel the tug in my chest, the epicenter of Merlin's power as it calls out to him in distress.

"Do you feel it now, lordling?" She grins at me, perhaps inferring at whatever surprise has shone through my expression. I shake my head, however, suddenly realizing how much I do not want to go through with this.

"That doesn't work either. Maybe I just need a break -"

I don't seem to persuade her. Nimueh shrugs, grabs Merlin by the shoulders with surprising strength as he thrashes and bucks, only to slam his upper body back to the cold ground. Merlin's head cracks against it, his tense body going unnaturally limp. " _STOP_ ," I say, and take a few steps forward.

"Have you found it yet, Arthur?" she hisses in answer, keeping her grip on Merlin tight. And though the urgency of the tugging has faded in my chest, perhaps because its owner is half-conscious and unable to call for it, the block remains lifted. I open my mouth to answer, but too slow for the woman.

She grabs at Merlin's arm tightly with both her hands, Merlin shouting in pain and renewing his struggle. Then Nimueh starts to twist, and his shouts turns to cries. All the while I stand there numbly, frozen.

"Perhaps you will feel it now," she says through gritted teeth, jerking her hands in a strange way, and there's an audible crack. Merlin screams, and the magic restricted inside me roars, my knees giving out as it surges through my veins. But there's nowhere for the power to go.

It remains caged, unable to boil over; reaching out regardless.

Nimueh finally seems satisfied. She lowers Merlin's misshapen arm slowly back to his side, smiling at me. "The next part is simple, my lord.' She gestures first to me, then to Merlin. "Let it build inside you, until there must be a form of release. And let it out, the only way it can."

But the magic seems to have already built up, tingling in my fingertips without a bridge to cross to Merlin's aid. Instead it writhes, squirming, twisting. Almost . . . like a whip.

I don't understand why or it is possible, but it is. I merely look at Merlin, and suddenly there's an exit; the writhing energy crackles in the air as it lashes and he cries out, back arching. The energy immediately sinks back inside me, sated. I let out a shaking breath, realizing its finally over, and wish suddenly that I'd tried harder in the first place.

I could have saved him a lot of added pain.

Nimueh lets out a breath of relief as well, sitting back on her haunches. Merlin does not move; his body is still, though I can see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. From Nimueh's work or mine, I don't know. There was a sorcerer evil enough to create the claim, I think to myself as the acidic burning entirely fades inside me. A spell that allows what I just performed to happen. There was a a sorcerer corrupted enough to cast it of their own free will, the first time.

"I will fetch Muirden to heal the physical damage," Nimueh says and rises, brushing the dirt from her thick skirt. She looks relieved, like we have narrowly avoided disaster, and I can't help the question that bursts unbidden from my lips.

"It was you, wasn't it?" I say. She blinks once at me, silent, so I continue, "You who invented the claim."

Nimueh's expression doesn't flicker once as she responds. "Yes."

She leaves then with the simple words, "I'll get Muirden," who takes her place a minute later, quickly healing Merlin's head and what he deems an 'over-extended arm.' He has Merlin flex and stretch till he is sure its good as new, and informs us rather smugly that midday meal is long-over.

"I think I'd like a rest, then," I say, thinking of the council meeting for our mission happening later this afternoon. Even Merlin will be attending, and he's in no state to at the moment. "Let's go."

As we walk I notice fierce anger radiating from the portion of my brain Merlin's feelings inhabit, and wonder how long its been there without my attention. I open the door flap and let him enter our tent first, hoping to catch his eye, but Merlin's gaze does not drift once from the ground as he passes me. Once both inside, he immediately crosses to his side of the room, back to me. Still as stone.

"Are you alright?" I find myself asking, though its a stupid question. When Merlin understandably does not give a response I continue regardless: "I think I understand where my father is coming from now. I mean, he has _her_ as his recruit, to try to control that kind of evil. And after today -"

"Do you think she's a monster?" Merlin's voice interrupts, though he does not turn to face me.

"She almost broke your arm, Merlin."

He laughs a breathy, un-amused sound. "Because you couldn't find it in yourself to hurt me. Quite literally."

"And that justifies it? Nimueh just _admitted_ she created the claim!"

Merlin finally twists around, shaking his head at me. "And your father used it against her."

"You're just guessing that. And even if you're right, it doesn't change that this all started because of her. And she doesn't even act like she cares!" I cross over to Merlin, adding, "She _likes_ it."

Merlin's hand flies, slapping against my cheek hard enough to wrench my neck sideways. I stagger back at the pain, touching the inflamed skin with disbelief. "If you say anything like that again I swear you'll regret it," he threatens, unapologetic in tone or expression. It shocks me out of any ideas of retaliation. His voice is ice, without inflection, eyes cold looking at me just like they were when he locked eyes with Yilgrid. "Today was your fault."

That horrible burning starts up again behind my eyes, though this time I'm not sure I can keep it at bay. "I kicked you, then? Threw your head against the ground, nearly broke your arm?" I demand, and his jaw pulses.

"Your father's fault, then, for when he threatened her punishment before you arrived. Didn't you notice how scared she was the whole time? How panicked?"

"So she punished you in her stead," I argue, and Merlin growls in frustration.

"You're a complete imbecile, Arthur - how do you still not get it? We don't _get_ the luxury of morals or supposed nobility! The sorcerers enslaved here . . . all we can do is survive."

Merlin deflates at his last words, anger cooling in my head into some hopeless brand of pain. His eyes seem to focus on my face - my left cheek, specifically, which still stings in the cold air. "I'm done trying to make you understand." He shakes his head, almost mournfully. "You are not your father's equal, but you're still his son."

I watch him turn his back again and find myself spitting out the only words I can think of: "Nimueh is the one who started the mission to find you. She felt your presence and location in a vision, and told my father all about it so he could have you tracked down. She didn't have to. That's the reason you're here; me, Foehart, and Lord Uther aside." Merlin visibly stiffens; he looks back at me with one eye, face in profile, searching for the lie.

"I'm not lying," I continue, and put a hand on his shoulder to make him face me again. "And you are the one who needs to understand: none of them can be your allies. Especially not her."

"Who can be then? . . . _You_?" he responds in a dull voice, raising an eyebrow at the last word. There's no way to tell what answer he expects.

Regardless I swallow, and shake my head. "No. Not me either. _No one._ "

Suddenly there are tears slipping down Merlin's cheeks, fast and unhindered, but he nods quickly. He wipes them away, even as new ones already race down again, and the wavering resolve in his eyes collapses. "I want my mum," he whispers, staring straight ahead, right through me. Eyes red and overfilling.

 _Me too_ , I think, though my mind's eye flashes between memories of Yilgrid and Foehart, laughing or comforting or hugging me hard between them. Both people that have been taken away from me - by Merlin, on the surface.

Underneath it, by a dirty mess of hatred and blood and magic that seems hopeless to truly clean.

"I want to go," Merlin continues in a quiet voice, and his eyes flicker back to me, evaluating. "Would you let me?" he asks after a moment, glancing to where my hand still rests on his shoulder.

"It can't work like that," I shake my head. "The claim wouldn't let you go far."

Merlin's answering smile is watery and weak. He replies, "Not what I meant."

* * *

 **A/N: Feel free to throw rotten food at me, I know I'm horrible xD Merlin angst and whump were part of this package deal though, don't forget!**

 **This is possibly my least favorite chapter ever. Though I hope none of you feel the same way, if you happen to, I don't blame you. I've struggled in my rewrite to make it flow better, to get Arthur's thoughts across in a way that makes enough sense in his limited POV, but . . . whatever. At least the plot has been furthered! Their journey will begin, and if my next chapter isn't such a doozy it may even be soon! Your comments from last chapter really helped motivate me anyway, so thank you!**

 **catherine10: I really like where your mind went with this :D That is unfortunately all I can say on the matter, however. All in due time, the truth will out! I will say that the backstory of Nimueh and the claim are closely interrelated, so when you hear about one you should think about the other. Thanks for telling me your awesome theory, its awesome to know my readers are really thinking.**

 **Just A Reviewer: I'm glad you're glad! I kind of have a thing where my stories end up being crazy-complicated mysteries regardless of what genre I'm trying to write in, and Recruit turned out to be no exception :) Leon is cruel, yep. Nice to Arthur, his friend, but his father still raised him to view recruits as weapons, not people. My excuse is that Leon hated sorcery in canon even though he was otherwise a great guy, so this is like a parallel to that . . . or something. Lol. Thanks for reviewing, I love hearing from you :)**


	24. To Remain Silent

**24\. To Remain Silent**

* * *

Summary: _It's worth the cold to hear Merlin's voice start up again a minute or so later, worth it to hear his first true laugh in days, however muffled. Like I'm fixing something; making right what I've done wrong, even if its Gwen and Elyan doing all the work._

 _Even if I'll never truly be a friend to him._

* * *

Just before the council meeting for the mission, a voice asks for permission to enter. When I grant it Merlin startles, stumbling to his feet to open the ties. His eyes are still a bit red, though they immediately widen with surprise as Gwen enters.

To my own surprise, her father follows in after her. Tom the blacksmith is tall for a man, towering over us all as he stoops through the entrance after Gwen. My eyes immediately move to the object in his hands.

Gwen and Tom turn to me, bowing their heads respectfully. "His lordship requested my father fashion you a true sword, my lord," Gwen says, as her father holds the sheathed weapon out with his hands.

He nods, adding, "It is still a bit short, not as long nor as heavy as what the knights carry - but it should suit you well on the front line, my lord."

It makes perfect sense; though the honor is traditionally given to a young man after two years of squiring, many of them do not see the front line for another two years following the ownership of a true weapon. Mine is a special case.

"You forged it in a fortnight?" I ask dubiously, looking at the simple sheath.

"Would you like to test the balance?"

I nod, stepping forward to pull the blade out by its hilt. Both Gwen and her father step back as it swings free, my grip uprighting the tip with surprising ease. Though I have never more than touched a real sword I immediately feel the difference from this and my clunky, dull sparring set. As I give a few experimental swings it follows almost quicker than I actually move it, as if responding to my thoughts more than my hand. The blade feels light, slicing through the air with no resistance.

"It seems . . . alright," I say, pulling my eyes away from the shining metal back to the blacksmith. But Merlin's face momentarily sidetracks me. He stares at the sword and I as if he has been for a while, feelings echoing in my head too jumbled to decipher.

Tom's lips pull up into a hesitant smile as I meet his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth between my face and the blade as well. "I hope it pleases you, my lord. On such short notice -"

"On such short notice one could probably not expect a sword of this quality, yet here it is," I reassure him, and take the sheath from his hands. The sword fits snugly into the leather, which I then lean against my cot. "Thank you."

"Thank you, my lord," Tom replies, bowing his head. He leaves the tent, leaving only Gwen to step forward.

"I am here on a different errand, my lord; in the case you need anything fetched for your journey from the Outer Ring's supplies." She glances at Merlin, flashing him a quick smile he doesn't return.

I answer, "Yes, that would be needed. Warmer clothes, for both Merlin and I, some furs would help. Boots and mittens for him, a new belt for me and a pack. Oh - also, a hunting knife for him. Can you remember all that?"

"For your lordship: warmer clothes, furs, a belt and a pack. For your recruit: warmer clothes, furs, boots, mittens . . . and a hunting knife."

She is unsuccessful at hiding curiosity behind the last request, for which I cannot blame. Recruits after all should know how to kill with their magic, and ideally know no other method.

"Foraging mushrooms will be easier," I shrug, and she nods rather quickly. "That will be all."

"Right away, my lord," Gwen nods, glancing once more at Merlin where he stands as she turns to go.

The previously jumbled emotions start becoming decipherable in my head: Merlin has taken to heart what I told him. Perhaps even realizes more than ever how alone he will be once he leaves the Inner Circle, without the friends the boy has managed to acquire: Gwen, the patients at the infirmary, perhaps even Morgana to an extent.

He doesn't so much as look at her before she gives up and leaves, the tent's flap billowing in the cold wind behind her. Merlin goes to refasten it without a word, jaw clenched and eyes down.

We go to the council meeting soon after, Sir Redney at its head. Sir Elser and his son will also be joining us, as well as another knight I do not know well and his new recruit - the young man captured from Leon's mission. Seven of us total, as the trip has been reported unsafe for large parties.

I try not to imagine the reason why - dragons possibly attacking our camp, roasting us all alive - and fail completely.

"We will want to scout out these areas near the east river, as they would be optimal for relocation," Redney says, and jabs at different points on the map just outside the forests of Camelot. "We may split in half at some point to cover ground, one guardian per group. The river of Ascetir is said to have recently froze over, so there's a good chance our small group can cross here instead of heading south to the shallows."

"Is that not a bit dangerous, so early in the season?" Sir Elser says, frowning as he stares at the map under bushy eyebrows.

"A little more dangerous, but quicker. We have little more than what we each carry to cross with - I foresee no issue," the other knight shrugs, to which Sir Elser huffs.

Sir Redney ignores them both and continues, "The morning after tomorrow His Lordship has assigned as departure - pack for a cold trip. Any necessaries you do not have can be obtained in the Outer Circle's stores of supplies."

It ends and we go to supper, Uther not present again thanks to the chilly weather. Merlin stays quiet through the meal, which is both annoying and relieving. The latter because the boy's mouth is one of the most dangerous things on him, of course. But though he is silent, the unnatural connection between us seems to grow all the stronger.

Worry, overclouding his usual disdain as I give him part of my overly-large portion of rabbit and bread. A curious kind of hope, both times I allow him to use his power to sharpen my new sword and then make one last visit to the infirmary. Amusement, when I struggle to properly get an arm through my sleeve for bed.

Overwhelmingly, _loneliness_ , which there is little cure for.

"I wonder _how_ it started," I say as we lay in our beds, the last candle blown out and the camp quiet. Merlin makes no reply, and I don't expect him to. "The claim, I mean. My father's never told me, but now that we know it was Nimueh . . . she seems happy to perform the ceremony most of the time, to add new recruits. Still . . . most of the time when she smiles it seems _off_ , somehow."

"Uther tricked her."

"Did he?" I frown, though inwardly smile at getting a word out of him. "How would he do that?"

Merlin breathes out a frustrated sigh, not speaking immediately. When he finally does, he replies, "I'm tired, my lord," in a long-suffering voice.

"Keep quiet then," I answer sharply, twisting my head to see his lying figure in the dark. But nights are too thick now to see anything past that. "Tomorrow is your last day before we leave. I doubt the front line will be as easy as it has been here, for you."

My words do nothing to spur anger from him, just a bone-deep sorrow that I immediately shy away from as it echoes in that certain part of my head. It calls to open some of my own bone-deep, dark feelings, ones that I have no intention of letting surface.

The next day starts with the miserable sensation of shutting my eyes once only to open them to morning, feeling no more rested than before. Merlin is already up, pulling up his threadbare trousers before leaning down to lace up his feet in my old shoes.

"Gwen will bring your new things by tonight," I tell him, voice thick with sleep I wish I remember having, and he nods without looking up. "Where are you off to? We have training -"

"We don't," Merlin shakes his head, starting on the second shoe. "Morgana came earlier to let you know. The other recruit, his name is Gilli, him and I are to meet with Nimueh for training about the front line separate from both our guardians."

"Well, have you had breakfast yet?"

Merlin finally looks up then, even if it is only to scowl and roll his eyes. "Don't expect I'd be able to keep it down after this lesson," he replies, and stands to slip on his thin jacket. I watch as the boy shivers once, then rummages through his sparse accumulation of borrowed property and procures an old rag.

Its not until he ties it around his skinny neck, as if for warmth, that I recognize its faded color and remember the time I did the same: in hopes of cooling a fever. Merlin must have had it since.

But then he turns sharply to stare at me, and I realize I've let a sudden feeling consume me unchecked: _hope_ , once again, regardless of its fleeting nature and coupling with useless longing. And through our strange connection Merlin has felt it, long before the following moment when I immediately look away.

He says nothing; merely looks at me hard, before leaving the corner of my vision to exit the tent.

I don't want to do this anymore.

But what exactly is ' _this'_? Being guardian over Merlin? Fighting battles inside my head, his voice on one side and my father's on the other? Staring hopeless off a crevice that is everything I've known, debating whether to jump from it?

After breakfast Gwen comes back, her soldier brother helping her unload everything into my tent. His leg is still bandaged, though he shows no sign of discomfort at the work. I notice then how they both instantly look around the room, only to stop with unconcealed disappointment.

"My recruit is training."

"Of course, my lord," Gwen nods, though they both look rather unhappy. Perhaps because this was the two's last chance to see Merlin before our departure.

"I . . . I have one last thing I require before the morning," I start, and immediately start racking my head for something to request.

"Yes, my lord?" Gwen prompts, immediately perking.

Two things come to me as suddenly as their memory. "A few large kerchiefs. Red, if you can find it. And . . ." I bite my lip, looking between the siblings, before addressing the soldier. "You don't happen to know how to make a ball? For sport, I mean."

It takes more than a minute before they both overcome their shock for Soldier Elyan admits that he does.

They come after supper that evening, though Merlin fills the room with such thick, contemptuous silent as we pack our things that I don't believe their presence will help. Still, when Gwen's voice asks to enter I immediately say, "I'll open it," before Merlin can react, quickly unfastening the flap. Instead of stepping aside to let the two enter I join them out in the damp cold.

"Thank you," I say, holding out my hands to take the neatly folded cloth from Gwen and the inflated bladder skin from Elyan. Once I have both I nod toward the door, stepping aside. "You can help pack," I tell them with a shrug.

Elyan quickly ducks in; Gwen stops for a moment, surprising me with a grateful smile, before following. And its worth the cold to hear Merlin's voice start up again a minute or so later, worth it to hear his first true laugh in days, however muffled. Like I'm fixing something; making right what I've done wrong, even if its Gwen and Elyan doing all the work.

Even if I'll never truly be a friend to him.

The two serfs don't linger though, leaving not after too long. Still, enough time I've concocted my excuse as to why I left them alone with Merlin in the first place. As I walk back in, however, I feel nearly a physical blow of what comes from Merlin's emotion - _loss_ \- and wonder if I've really done him any favors.

Seeing friends, being reminded he has friends - that was my plan to make things right before the morning? Before Merlin will have to leave it all behind, regardless?

Unsurprisingly, his posture emulates what I can feel coming off him in waves. Shoulders hunched, head low, hands clutched tight around the small-but-filled bag in his lap. There's really no need to see his face - I can hear his breath, the shudder of it coming in and out. Inwardly cursing _myself_ , for once, as the idiot.

"Add this to your things," I say lightly, though, tossing the folded kerchiefs in his direction. Two red, one blue. They land almost directly on top of the pack, and Merlin slowly opens it to add the items without question. "The rest of this we'll put together before dawn. Get up, there's one more thing to do."

Merlin rises, again without his usual questioning, and I gesture to the door with one hand. The inflated bladder in the other behind my back. "To the grove," I tell him once we're outside, the sun little more than an orange streak behind the trees. The shadows reach farther with every minute as we walk, Merlin's head down and hands clasped together in the perfect form of a submissive recruit. Which is a likely sign what I'm about to try will prove entirely fruitless.

But I try anyway. We get there, Merlin stopping when I stop; so I turn to him, immediately throwing the bladder at his chest.

Shockingly, he manages to catch it. "What's this?" he says quietly, frowning down at it, and I scoff.

"What? Never played ball? I'd believe it if I hadn't already seen you before," I say, crossing my arms with a smirk.

Merlin finally raises his head, giving me a bewildered look. "What are you doing?" he says, finally sounding a bit like his usual self, and I make my smile wider.

"I don't want to pack anymore; you don't want to either. So we're doing this instead," I shrug, and move to take the ball from his hands.

Merlin twists so its out of reach, surprising me. "That's not how you play," he says matter-of-factly. In one movement he drops the bladder before bouncing it up again with a knee, regulating between right and left while keeping it in the air.

I crowd him, trying to throw off his rhythm with my own knee, and only manage when Merlin starts laughing and loses his concentration. Then we're at each other, trying to keep possession of the ball all the way until the last of the light wanes in the grove. By then I'm breathless and sweaty despite the cold, and there's a light returned to Merlin's eyes I hadn't before noticed had gone missing. He's smiling like an idiot, though I might admittedly be as well, and whoops in triumph when I finally give up the chase.

But its loud, echoing through the camp and grating at my ears as I imagine my father catching the sound. "Shut up!" I hiss at him. Merlin rolls his eyes, still grinning. No one is near but still I glance around, not noticing till now how dark the shadows have grown. "We should probably head back."

His grin fades, and for good reason. Heading back means sleep, and sleep guarantees a short time before the ominous morning. "Or . . . we could run away," he says out of nowhere.

I'm temporarily speechless, staring at the boy to make sure he hasn't gone mad. But there's nothing to assure me in Merlin's hopeful expression. "We'd both get the biggest lashings of our lives," I respond, shaking my head.

"But that's the point of _running away_ ," Merlin scoffs. "We can head south, make it to my village in a few days -"

"Which is the first place my father would send knights to," I argue, and he scowls.

"Fine, then. We'll head to Camelot instead, and -"

" _Camelot?_ Do you think that place would be better than here?"

"Anywhere is better than here!"

"Camelot knights have captured claimed pairs in the past," I say, moving to stand directly in front of Merlin for my next words. "They tortured the guardians, trying to break the claim, and ended up killing them. Which meant the recruits as well."

"Haven't they learned their lesson, then?" He arches an eyebrow.

"The king of Camelot is _mad_."

"Says who? Your father, who wants his throne?" Merlin smiles smugly when I only sputter in response, and walks past me back towards the direction of our tent.

I trudge behind him a bit sullenly, but can't help being inwardly smug myself. Merlin is back to being as Merlin as ever, which is as much as I dared hope for. Leaving won't be much easier - but maybe I have managed to give him something. Not a bladder ball, but a promise for some good things amidst all the bad.

It doesn't matter, right this instant, that I probably won't be able to keep that promise.

* * *

 **A/N: Apologies are for the weak, so you'll get none from me. Though there *shouldn't* be a long break like this again for a while, hopefully not till mid-April. But in case you're interested, I've gone to a writer's conference, taken three midterms and slept overnight in a snowcave since last updating! So its been a bit cray-cray, as the illiterate say. The next chapter is skipping just a few days forward in time, as a heads up. Love you all and can't wait to hear from you!**

 **Just A Reviewer: I've never watched Buffy, though I admit now I'm curious . . . I totally forgot Tony played that character! Feel free to have mixed emotions about Nimueh, or pick sides with Merlin or Arthur. The truth, I will say, is usually going to be more messy than black/white, right/wrong, and all that. Mmmm yes, sorry about the gore, I tried to keep it mild description-wise but I can definitely say this won't be the last of it. I'm glad you like the feelsy fights! That's my favorite as well, haha. Thanks for your hilarious review ;)**

 **catherine10: Yes, you're totally right about Merlin's perspective in this fic being contrary to his in canon. He dealt a lot with the fear and silence of magical oppression, but not nearly as much of this side - discrimination and dehumanization for starters, only enhanced by the power and input of the claim. Hoped you liked this chapter, sorry about the wait, and thanks for reviewing!**

 **FairyGoatMother: Woohoo, jump on the pity train with me! Our poor little boys, what have I done to them? Glad you've been looking forward to this update, I hope the wait was worth it...lol. Be as greedy as you like, its a motivator on my end. Let this be a message to all: WRITERS LIKE GREEDY REVIEWERS. Thanks so much for being one, you're pretty cool ;)**


	25. Habitual

**22\. Habitual**

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 **Summary:** " _Any other pressing injuries to tend to before you take it away again?" Merlin jokes, and I look up from the healthy-if-skinny-looking ankle to meet his smirk. It's already pulling down at the edges, though; probably in reaction to his last few words._

* * *

I am at the edge of the water, moving to shed all articles of clothing when I first hear the twig snap.

The next sound is more of a crash, a second later; my hands freeze at the hem of my coat, and I immediately unsheathe the sword at my belt as I whirl around to face the unknown enemy.

Of course, its only Merlin picking himself up from the ground. I can feel my face flush immediately, maybe at the prospect of almost being caught naked or maybe from the underlying fear that it had been a dragon.

I disguise it with irritation before he can notice. "Do you _ever_ just do as you're told?"

"Arthur! Fancy seeing you here—"

"I can't rid of you, can I? You're like a nasty little wart that's grown right between my toes."

"Sounds like you know from experience."

I move to stand crossly in front of Merlin, who is still sheepishly wiping dead leaves from his backside. He looks ready to laugh, though. "I asked you to go hunt for mushrooms, and you—what? _Spy on me_ , behind a _tree_ , instead?"

"But look," Merlin says, obviously missing the point, "I've found some!" He empties his bulging pockets a little, cradling the stools with his long fingers.

I blow out a breath of disbelief. A _half hour_ of privacy—that was too much to ask, apparently, even after days of spending every living second with him and the rest of the company. " _Fine_. We might as well head back, then." I immediately walk off.

"What?" Merlin puts the mushrooms back in his pockets, skipping to catch up with my brisk pace. "Redney said an hour, right? Why do we have to return before then?"

"It's _Sir_ Redney, to you," I correct, ignoring how he rolls his eyes. "And we're returning because I was looking for a wash, but since you can't seem to leave me alone for more than two minutes at a time I'm giving up the notion."

Merlin halts in his tracks, and after a sigh I stop as well, looking back at him. "In that case," he shrugs, an indecent smirk on his face, "I'll leave you to it. You _need_ a wash . . . little lordling."

That horrible endearment will never cease to infuriate me—and somehow he knows that—so it's no surprise when the insolent boy takes off running and I take off chasing him a second later. He's hooting, calling me fat and slow, but obviously doesn't remember this terrain when we traveled through it a few hours or so ago. The second he veers to the left I know I've got him.

A rather large cluster of rabbit hills is up ahead, complete with softened dirt under the snow and pesky holes in unassuming places. Merlin is oblivious; he immediately trips at the first hole, barely scrambling himself up again in time to miss my pounce, and starts stumbling through them. Ignoring my laughter as I pursue, until I shout, "You look like a newborn colt trying to race!"

"Oh really?!" he calls back, "Better than a—"

I never find out, for with an audible "oof!" Merlin twists his ankle on another rabbit hole and sprawls to the ground. I lunge forward before he can get up, laughing in triumph, holding him down with my weight, wrestling and grabbing his flailing arms, pinning them down—

And then after a split second I realize what I've just done.

It's all too familiar: Merlin squirming below me, out of breath, my hands pinning his arms easily into the forest ground. His eyes, just like before, widening.

I jump back like I've been shocked, feeling Merlin's dread echo my dread. Dread, probably as we're both remembering me stuffing that rag in his face months ago, until he passed out from the fumes.

He sits up, looks away from me, takes to staring out into the trees. I ignore the faintest glow fading from his sleeves. "Let's head back then," I say, going for flippancy, and he answers with a shaky nod. I stand, waiting, growing restless when he doesn't move, just continuing to stare out at nothing.

Its becoming a pattern: Merlin stays silent, Merlin acts miserable, I manage to distract him, Merlin starts to seem happy, and then I manage to remind him all over again somehow and the useless cycle continues. Exhausting, at this point.

But I hold back any callous retort about laziness or not having all day, instead sighing and holding a hand out. Merlin looks up at it, inspecting it like I might be about to give him a disease, and then dubiously drags his gaze up to my face. Raising an eyebrow.

"Just take it already," I roll my eyes, shaking it at him. Finally he shrugs, and it's understandably easy to pull such a thin thing up—

Before Merlin promptly stumbles straight into me. "Ahhhhmy _foot_ ," the idiot sorcerer wheezes, and I groan an, "Of _course,_ " before assuming the injured comrade position. Another reminder of that night, I realize, though not one of such a literally pungent nature.

We hobble a few paces before he stops altogether. "Arth-Arthur, wait, stop. Stop," he says, hopping on one foot almost.

" _What_?" I snap.

"It would take forever to get there on flat ground; _we're_ in the middle of a rabbit den," he says, shaking his head. "You need to—to let me. Aliesan a little back. All right?"

"Right," I say, nodding my head, and then ease him back to the forest floor. He sighs in relief, holding out his hands instinctively before I've even joined him on the ground.

We clasp hands, Merlin's eyes locking with mine, before I mutter quickly, "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð."

I feel the characteristic burn through my veins, completely used to the sensation now. But Merlin still stiffens, his eyes darkening a molten gold, and I quickly center my thoughts. _Heal_ , I think simply, and the power bound inside me releases in small measure, directed down from my heart to my arms, from my arms down my palms to his own. When I release his hands they go straight to his ankle, shrugging off his boot and wrapping around the already swelling skin.

With another flash of his eyes Merlin lets go; I watch in fascination as the slight swelling immediately goes down, the discoloration fades in a moment. His time working in the infirmary has done him credit.

"Any other pressing injuries to tend to before you take it away again?" Merlin jokes, and I look up from the healthy-if-skinny-looking ankle to meet his smirk. It's already pulling down at the edges, though; probably in reaction to his last few words.

"We'll see," I say, and, never one to wait on Merlin, stand up abruptly to leave. I hear Merlin hobbling to get his boot back on and catch up, and I smile while the boy can't see.

The walk back to our temporary campsite, where Redney and three other knights wait, is full of Merlin glancing not so subtly at me, and me very blatantly ignoring him. I can feel the uneasiness Merlin is emanating, echoing my indifference.

Halfway there, the boy explodes. "What is _with_ you lately! Does it really require you so long to take it away again?"

He wrenches at my arm, or else I would continue to ignore the idiot, so I reply rather patiently, "What kind of a recruit are you, Merlin?"

That stops him in his tracks. "Sorry?"

I grin at his confusion, crossing my arms. "What kind of a fool _reminds_ someone to disarm them of their only weapon? Hmm?"

Merlin blinks; in an instant his expression morphs from nonplussed to defensive. "I was just asking," he glares, brow pulled down. I throw my head back and laugh.

But when the camp is in sight I sigh; quickly go through the now practiced notion of cutting Merlin off again. A small, faraway island on a calm lake. A golden sword pulled into its scabbard. _EMRYS._

Merlin sighs next to me—a forlorn, regretful gust of breath reminding me how aware the recruit really is, of the power but most especially of the lack of it—and I ignore the sound. But as we approach, and the lack of movement in the camp begins to seem odd, Merlin distracts with the question: "Why did you wait so long? And how do you take it, in the first place?"

Asking incessant questions is a good sign, though I can't help still getting irritated. "You think I'd tell my own recruit that?" I scoff.

"It's not as if I could use the knowledge against you," he answers.

I shrug. "I waited because you're not _quite_ so insufferable to be around, when you've got your mag – the weapon," I quickly correct, shrugging again.

" _My magic_ , you mean?" Merlin says boldly, though he retreats when I immediately step toward him.

"You can't say things like that," I remind, hoping such a thing can be impressed to his regularly un-impressible head. Meanwhile, something starts feeling off. If he could just stay quiet for a moment—

Apparently not. Merlin puts his hands on his hips. "But _you_ almost just said it—" he counters, cutting off finally when I put up a silencing hand. I squint at the camp for a while, at the stillness of it again, and this time the appropriate warning bells finally go off in my head.

"Merlin, something's—" I start until I hear a scuffle, neck snapping forward just in time to see a tall man bag Merlin's head and draw the strings tight. Definitely not enough time to stop whoever is behind me, though I manage to struggle against the head bag long enough that finally, with the blunt edge of a sword, I'm knocked out cold.

I wake to the sensation of my backside being lit on fire.

* * *

 **A/N: Don't go crazy worried about Arthur now, he's our narrator so he'll have to live! Lol. Tell me if you have any guesses on what happens next! I'm hoping to post the next chapter as soon as possible so no one's left hanging too long.**

 **(SIDE NOTE: You guys are the most loyal, enthusiastic, dedicated bunch of reviewers on the internet! Recruit and LifeIndeed seriously don't deserve you. Every time I post a chapter I really just can't wait to hear from you, its my excuse ;) Let me know if you ever need anything, would like me to read anything of yours, or just want to chat - seriously. To you lovely anon followers/readers, maybe I'm getting greedy but I'd really love to get to know you as well. This site is just full of wonderful people!)**

 **catherine10: I'm really glad you thought so - obviously in light of this new event there might be complications in getting to the front lines of course! Thanks for reviewing :)**

 **fairygoatmother: Mostly bitter, though, wouldn't you say? Lol, I'm glad you're liking it regardless of your confused emotions! My updates should hopefully continue to be a lot sooner, so you'll get to feel confused more often ;) As always, I appreciate** **hearing from you!**

 **Just A Reviewer: I had to build and sleep in a snow cave as part of a Wilderness Writing class I'm in! It was mostly cold, though, rather than exciting...I'm a bit of a wimp when it comes to camping. I'm glad you're good with the grey, we're going to keeping getting along in that case! All I can say is Uther and Nimueh have a complicated past directly involved with the claim - and yes, to battle they go, though maybe not the one they expected in light of this chapter's end. You have not seen the last of Morgana by a long shot, don't worry! Thank you for your well-wishes, I hope the rest of your week goes just as well, and thanks for leaving another one of your awesome reviews!**


	26. Important One

**26\. Important One**

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Summary **:** _I lean back, craning my head so my mouth can reach his ears, and whisper, "We need to get our hands untied. Just for a second, so I can give it to you. Then you'll have my permission to do whatever necessary."_

* * *

I'm burning up; dying of heat, pressed against something almost hot as coal. And yet, something _shivering_.

"Mer . . . merlin, s'that you?" I mumble, turning as far as I can. Something's stopping me from doing much of that—rope, I realize. Tying my hands together, tying my arms to my sides and my hands to my chest, wrapped around me so I'm back to back with another someone. A skinny someone, though that doesn't stop me from feeling an unreasonable amount of heat burning through my backside from them. "Merlin!" I hiss under my breath, blinking as I take in the dark around me. My head is spinning, bringing waves of nausea with each sickening round of pounding.

Right when I start to wonder if it is actually him tied against me, Merlin lets out a weak groan. "Where have you been?" he whimpers, and I wish he could see me roll my eyes.

"My apologies, just went to go get help," I say, sardonic, "sorry it took me so long."

"Arthur," Merlin groans, not appreciating the sarcasm. He jabs me with a very bony, lethally pointy elbow.

"OW! You know, just been out cold tied to _your_ useless backside all evening apparently—"

"Oye! You two! Shut up over there!" I stiffen, suddenly remembering how exactly I came to be knocked out and likely tied in such a fashion. Footsteps are approaching from Merlin's side, who starts shivering even _more_ violently, and a different voice says, "Turn 'em sideways. That ways we keep an eye on both of 'em."

Rough hands grab at the rope and I'm unceremoniously dragged in an anti-clockwise fashion, bumping against the twiggy ground until I can see, to the right of me, our camp.

Except its inhabitants aren't quite knights of Ascetir, of the great and noble Lord Uther, and it shows. They're smugglers at best; more likely, a flock of ruffians that prey on smaller trains of travelers. Kill, loot, and retreat. About a dozen of them, by the campfire's light—twice the size of our party, and it seems as if a good amount of them fell during the scourge anyway.

Then my stomach heaves as I spot not only the fallen invaders, but my fallen comrades. Barsnic, he'd just come into knighthood. Elser, Barsnic's father nearby. Elser had been telling Barsnic about the Darkling Forest just the night before, where Lord Uther had defeated the thieves and gangs for part of the army to inhabit. The young knight's eyes were so wide, and the elder's so merry. Now they lay crumpled, fallen, left where they were slain.

Then, not a pace away, I see Redney—dead on his side, silver chainmail stained black in the darkness, innards spilled and shining on the forest floor. Eyes staring glossy, glassy at me. Dark, putrid horror pools into my gut, and I flinch when I close my eyes away from the image; it's still there, burned into my retinas.

That leaves two left, besides Merlin and I. A knight I know little of, except the name of the second, his recruit. Merlin informed me earlier it was Gilli, and at the time I asked him why I should care.

Now I pray Gilli and his guardian were able to flee where we were not.

Merlin's shivering dies down to a faint tremor again, once the man goes back to the fire, but his back is still like a brand on my own. I lean back, craning my head so my mouth can reach his ears, and whisper, "We need to get our hands untied. Just for a second, so I can give it to you. Then you'll have my permission to do whatever necessary."

Merlin gives a violent shiver and then nods—or, perhaps, just shivers again.

"What are you quaking for?" I whisper when the men seem busy with food. _Our_ food, I note begrudgingly. "Are you that much a coward? It can't be that it's cold—you feel like you've got a mortal fever."

"D-d-don't know-ow," he chatters back, "j-j-just suddenly c-c-can't st-top. My a-arms won't stop-p _glowing_ e-either."

Glowing. It makes sense, then—his magic is trying to reach him, to protect him.

If only I could grant its request.

"G-Gilli and his guardian are s-s-still alive," Merlin whispers, and I jolt my head up in surprise. "OW!" Merlin cries when our skulls knock against each other, and I wince.

Sure enough, we've drawn attention to ourselves again. "You two not understand the meaning of _keep your mouth shut_?" a particularly ugly one says, prowling over. He's got a hump on his shoulder, looks like, rather complementing an impressive under bite.

"We need to eat something," I say, deciding to take advantage of the situation. "And we're freezing. If you're going to keep us alive, you're not doing a very good job of it." Ugly gets closer, leans down to squint at the both of us – Merlin in reaction goes from shivering to shaking.

"Wonder which of ya's the magic," he says, ignoring my words and cocking his head.

"Best way to find out's to kill one of 'em," another calls back to him, chortling.

Ugly laughs along, nodding his head. "Guess so. I kill one," he pulls out a dagger, and Merlin flinches, "and wait to see if the otha dies." I grit my teeth, glaring at him, as he rests the blade against both of our necks, grinning toothily. Merlin groans, his body near to quaking - and I suddenly feel it tug against my chest.

I find myself suddenly hoping the man will draw a little blood, that maybe if the danger is just a little more imminent the claim will release Merlin's magic back to him like it did when Yilgrid threw her knife at my chest. But even then, it would only last till the second I no longer was in mortal danger.

Just then Ugly sheathes it again, snorting. "Too bad. If we weren't needing the important one alive, I would." He winks at us both - and suddenly I'm not so sure which of us he's implying.

He gets back on his feet, turning to leave until Merlin cries out a "Wait!"

Ugly stops, looking down at us.

This time I'm the one jabbing him with my elbow, but Merlin keeps going. "The o-other two you have—they'll d-die if you don't give the kn-night help. If you want a-all of us alive, y-you have to s-save the knight-t."

"If he dies, nothin' we try'll change that. And we'll still have you two, won't we?" Ugly shrugs, looking pretty nonchalant on the matter.

But Merlin persists. "B-But I can try. I c-can heal him."

Ugly snorts again, laughing as he says, "You think I trust your little master here to only give you healing? We're not fools when it comes to Lord Uther's strange ways, let me tell ye. My leader has sources, ones that keep us informed to how the warlord enslaves his precious sorcerers."

"I h-healed my ankle right before you c-caught us," Merlin shakes his head, urgent, "My guardian d-didn't have time to t-take it away. I s-still have it, s-see?" He offers up his wrists, and after a moment's hesitation Ugly crouches to look at them. Other men start to stand up, looking wary of how long one of their men has been speaking to a prisoner. But whatever he sees, likely the glow Merlin just told me about, seems to enforce Merlin's words to them. Ugly backs away with a hesitant expression, unaccustomed on his disfigured face.

Some of the rest inspect as well, scratching their heads and giving each other confused looks. I start hoping, hoping against hope the man will tie Merlin free. If we can just face each other, link our hands for even a moment while I say the words—

Just then a black-bearded man who has stayed by the fire calls out, "Get away from 'em. You're all askin' for trouble. No. We see how the knight fares in the morn, before takin' any such rash action, and that be the end of it."

The men immediately quiet, leaving Merlin and me without more than a glance. Merlin sighs, and I close my eyes in defeat.

But my head keeps pounding dully, keeping me awake though the men start to retreat to our tents for sleep. Only one man keeps watch, humming a discordant tune, and I find myself running through Ugly's words in my head over and over again. From what he said they apparently need us alive, or at least one claimed pair - so Gilli and his guardian's survival might actually mean our deaths. But for what purpose would they need a guardian and recruit?

My mind immediately flits to experiments, torture, to try to break the unbreakable bond. But that seems too far of a stretch for idiots like these. Their 'sources' could have informed them of my presence among this group, of course, and this is a simple matter of ransom. There might be nothing to worry about.

"Arthur?" Merlin whispers, and I jump in surprise. "Arthur, I think they want me and Gilli. I heard them earlier, and they're looking for a 'boy sorcerer,' they said, and that it was 'orders.'"

"Orders? Do they look like men who follow orders, Merlin?" I whisper back.

"I don't know. But that's good, right? If they wanted you I'd be dead and cold by now."

"I don't think its good at all. If they want us both alive its definitely not for a good reason."

Merlin doesn't respond, sighing and shifting to find a better position. He's no longer quaking like an autumn leaf, at least. Its strange - his feverish back keeps me burning warm, but the ground beneath us is icy and has soaked my legs and bottom in freezing water. A worrisome but useful thing, in a way, considering the freezing weather and worrisome distance between us and the fire

Eventually I do sleep again, despite the nausea from my headache and Merlin's insistent heat on my back—not waking up until much later in the night. In fact, the sky is ash black when I blink my eyes open, lifting my head from its drooped position. Merlin is asleep, head awkwardly on my shoulder. His mouth is breathing feverishly hot air, right up against my ear.

"Wake up," an insistent voice says, possibly for a second time, and I blink up at the dark profile of a man against the sky. Only recognizable because his beard is even darker. "Wake up, both of ya."

He kicks me in the leg, and then Merlin in the side. "Uhhh . . . wha?" Merlin mumbles, lifting his head slowly. He's still, restful until I see his head turn in the corner of my eye. Looking up at the man as well. Then immediately, his body starts shivering again.

"We'll see if you're lying or not, boy," the black-bearded man says, reaching for the rope that has us tied together. With expert hands he undoes the knot—but quickly shoves me away from Merlin. Kicking me in the stomach a second after. "Lessee if you're all talk."

I cough, trying to get air back in my lungs. Meanwhile Blackbeard pulls a quaking Merlin to his feet, and then slings the boy over his shoulder like he's a bag of wheat. "You better come as well, young master," he looks back at me, raising big bushy eyebrows, "'less you want your little sorcerer here to die alone."

* * *

 **A/N: I am so excited by the ever-increasing number of people following this story! By my standards, at least, its pretty cool :) I'm also crazy grateful for all your comments, theories and kind words, its great to hear that you like 'Recruit' despite my inconsistent updating! I'm hoping to get better at it, because this sequence of events in the story is much better read without long delays.**

 **Fairygoatmother: Well, not all of your questions have been answered but you know at least what was against Arthur's back ;) I loved your idea of it 'being a test,' that's a really cool idea! Sorry the wait was long, I hope you enjoyed the update regardless and I can promise to try to keep them frequent from now on. Thanks for your awesome review!**

 **Guest: Dragons will happen! I swear it!...just not quite yet. But sooner than you'll think ;)**

 **catherine10: Thanks! Glad you're continuing to enjoy the story, I love hearing from you.**


	27. Willpower

**27\. Willpower**

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Summary: _The man nods, dragging Merlin out—and when he continues to struggle, clocking the boy in the face. Once, twice. Again. "MERLIN!" I shout as he collapses to the ground._

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The recruit Gilli and his guardian are apparently being held in a tent, I see upon entering inside one. The black-bearded man drops Merlin to the ground, standing between the two of us. "Go ahead then. Heal 'em," he grunts, waving his hand at the tied-up men before us.

There's another nameless ruffian, keeping Gilli and his guardian in place, and quickly I see why. The knight is slumped forward, unconscious, weight straining against the rope that ties him to Gilli—who doesn't look much better off. He's not shivering, like Merlin, but his face is ashen pale, maybe even tinged with green. Dark blood oozes from a cut in his temple. His eyes have rested on us, frightened and desperate.

I know what this means. Gilli sits here, probably with no fatal physical injuries, yet still in danger of dying thanks to the one-way link between him and his guardian. It used to make sense; a recruit would never dream of killing their own guardian, for fear of killing themselves, whereas a guardian need not carry such reservations.

In this moment, looking at the new recruit's hopeless face, it only looks like Merlin's.

I'm taken back to my year and a half in the Darkling Woods, for a moment, the time I spent away as a child while Lord Uther battled against Cenred's forces. There was a knight I remember, a man who I met that suddenly and tragically lost his recruit in some kind of accident. He walked around like a shadow of himself for months after. They'd been bound by Nimueh, back before she'd even become one of my father's own, or so others said. Whether it was the long range of time together, or a different sort of claim made back then, he carried around a huge burn all across his chest from the loss of his recruit. And a lost, burnt-away expression to match.

After half a year, the steward over the camp deemed the man mad, verbally stripped him of his knighthood, and cast him out.

"Go on, sorcerer," Blackbeard says, this time impatient. No one has moved. When Merlin merely turns his head, staring at the sickly-looking pair, the man makes an irritated noise and kicks him. "NOW."

I watch nervously from around Blackbeard as Merlin slowly stands, moving over to the knight like it's a death march. His eyes seem trained on the injury at the knight's middle—and all I can see from here is a dark stain. I wonder, again, who of the pairs these men really find important. If they were to offer incapacitating us, me and this knight, surely wouldn't the two recruits agree? Rejoice at the chance to be free, even temporarily?

When Merlin kneels down next to the unconscious man, however, he glances back at me with a clear look. Desperation.

Of course Merlin is lying—I know it, he knows it, these big men probably know it. But still we were woken up in the dead of night to be taken here, both of us. The life of Gilli or of his master _must_ be important somehow, in some way to them. Two claimed pairs better than one. The black-bearded ruffian has both eyes trained on Merlin; there might even be a smile hidden under all that dark overgrowth. And I think now this has to be a test of some sort, with a different set of motives. Perhaps they simply want to watch Merlin and see what he can do – not unlike Foehart and I.

Well then. I'll show them.

I answer Merlin's desperate glance with a look of my own—I pour every drop of will, every bit of confidence I can muster into it, and nod at him. Hold my arms out, hands open reaching for his. _NOW,_ I call out as loud as I can in my mind.

His eyes widen.

Without warning Merlin dives forward, and I jump to meet him straight through the beard man's legs. In that second there's exclamations of surprise – curses, mostly, hands grappling at their feet trying to grab at us, and a harsh pain burns against my skin as my trousers rip at the knee – but all my being is focused in on reaching Merlin's hands, already chanting the words in my head. _Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð, Ic alīesan ēow anweald don—_

There's a fleeting moment where I more see our fingertips brush than feel it happen, and then huge hands are dragging me up from the ground. I kick and thrash, screaming out in frustration. But quickly stop, eyes widening as the other ruffian grabs Merlin by the hair and uses it to pull him up, taking no heed of the boy's pain-filled cries.

"Teach him a lesson," Black-beard says to him, voice in my ear. "I'll teach this one." He's a stone wall, unflinching against my renewed struggles with his arms locking my own tightly to me.

The man nods, dragging Merlin out—and when he continues to struggle, clocking him in the face. Once, twice. Again. "MERLIN!" I shout as he collapses to the ground. Falling gracelessly, without any try at landing safer. The ruffian laughs at that, starts dragging Merlin up by the collar, and then throws him back to the ground again.

"MERLIN!"

My eyes suddenly swim with the image of the man from Darkling Woods still mourning his recruit, the giant burn across his chest. Wondering if that might be my fate. Especially when, after the smiling ruffian kicks his curled-in stomach, Merlin's mouth starts bubbling blood.

"NO!" No. No, Merlin won't die. He can't. He has to stay alive for his mum, for his friend Will, for hope's sake, for _my_ sake. Ic alīesan ēow anweald, don mīn ferð. _I release thy power to do my will. Ic alīesan ēow anweald, don mīn ferð._ I can't help but chant the words in my head, will them into existence, into truth.

"Ic alīesan ēow anweald, don mīn ferð, Ic alīesan ēow anweald, don mīn ferð, Ic alīesan ēow anweald—!" I start chanting out loud, until Black-beard clamps a thick hand over my mouth.

Merlin just lies in a heap now, passed out at the least. Gilli, just to my right, looks about the same. The most powerful ones, the weakest ones. I blink down at them both, still locked in Black-beard's irrefutable grip, and something cold drops into the bottom of my stomach. Something that tastes like despair.

"Heal yourself, little sorcerer! Where is that hidden power now?"

"Weak. Useless. We can find better, Dareck," the other says to Blackbeard, smiling nastily down at Merlin. "Just a pathetic boy. Not the powerful one Kanen needs." He nudges Merlin's cheek with a dirty boot. "Overpowering the claim's probably a myth."

Blackbeard throws me to the ground, knocking the breath out of me, and says, "Too bad. I was looking forward to being the one who found 'im." He shrugs and moves to stand over me, pulls a rusty sword from his sheath. "Guess there's always next time." Its point hits me in the chest, and the ruffian's face is so nonchalant about digging it just a little harder and harder in, like he's digging into dirt, not human flesh, sharper and sharper. Until red blooms through my tunic.

Maybe this is it.

For a moment, I wish what they say could be true. That Merlin could overpower the claim like these two seem to hope, access his magic without me involved. Maybe if he could do that he could overcome it all—flee, kill them, kill me without endangering himself. _I bind thy power to do my will_. And the second part of the claim, so short yet irreversible: Ic fæstnian ēow. _I bind thy life, to mine._ The second this sword tip pierces my heart, it will have pierced Merlin's too. Can his magic feel that? Locked up as it is, does it know how close the end is?

I don't close my eyes; I willfully stare up at Black-beard, head off the ground. As I watch my end, my heart begins to pound a beat: _Magic. Wake. Merlin. Take. Magic. Take. Merlin. Wake._

Something happens, but it's expected. Abrupt pain, ripping into my chest, surprisingly more comparable to fire than the cold steel it must be. I gasp, my head slamming back against the ground with a force that would hurt, if it wasn't for the distracting ripping, _enflaming_ sensation in my chest.

But then my chest - _glows_. Black-beard steps away, taken aback, the light reflecting in his dark eyes. He gasps, "This one's the sorcerer," tripping farther from me in fear. And I stare down in blank amazement, with more than a little horror. Wondering now if the pain perhaps isn't from the blade. The whole tent is illuminated, and when the other man reaches to grab Merlin—maybe tow him away from this strange spectacle—the unthinkable happens.

In the same moment, Merlin goes rigid, gasps in a chestful of air and latches onto the arm reaching for him.

He looks up at the enemy with fire in his eyes.

* * *

 **A/N: Arthur and Merlin aren't out of the fire quite yet, but now they're both...on fire?**

 **FairyGoatMother: Haha, I loved that (and used it just now in my A/N), I don't think its quite resolve yet! But knowing me, things are likely to take another turn for the worse before they turn for the better ;) Haha, waiting is tough so I hope you enjoyed the end of it - well, waiting for this update, at least. There's always the next and the next to wait for still, lol. Thanks for your review!**

 **catherine10: I'm glad you caught that it was deception! And yes, I agree entirely that Cenred would have exploited the abilities of sorcerers in his kingdom by the wya he came off, though the show never said as such. Merlin is not an idiot, no matter what Arthur says in his POV! Thanks for your comments :)**


	28. It's Over

**28\. It's Over**

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Summary: " _Gilli," Merlin mutters, near my ear, and I understand the plea in his voice. But Merlin cannot help. Not in this state. I know it, he must know it – and yet. I know he'll never forgive me if I don't let him try._

* * *

Three things happen at once.

Merlin lets go of his grip on the man's arm, his eyes blazing golden as they watch his captor fall to the ground. Eyes rolling, blood trickling from each of the man's nostrils.

A great wind blows into the tent – a great, terrible wind, biting at my skin in its force and blowing the tent's canvas askew. Knocking Black-beard to the ground, his eyes so wide they nearly bulge from his head.

At Merlin, who stands and starts slowly raising his hands. Not forward, not directed at his enemies; out, as if wings that have been bound, and bloodied, and _tortured and maimed_ , finally now are able to stretch. To spread.

All that happens after is a flurry of movement and sound; horses screaming like men, men screaming like horses, the tent flying off its poles, the current of air gathering dust and billowing out in every direction, around him, at the epicenter _Merlin_. His eyes won't stop glowing, and my chest won't stop burning. Merlin is on fire and so am I. I feel it between us like a current, an invisible tendril of flame that sparks what is consuming us both.

But another current beckons just to me.

I feel it creeping from the corners of my vision with every second, at the edge of my skin. The fire is either dulling, or my senses are. The canvas ceiling has been replaced with winking stars that I watch as the camp is leveled around me, but slowly, slowly, they start to wink out.

A black, suffocating arm grabs and tugs, pulling against my last shred of will and plunging me deep into dark waters. My ears are clogged with it; my eyes are mucked with it. For a moment, I think I touch the other side. I'm going to die, I think. The power is drowning me. _I'm going to die._

I don't want to do this anymore.

"Help! Please help, please, help, _help_ . . . help . . ."

The word pulls me, slowly, out of the water.

"HELP! Someone, help!" The voice pleas. I don't recognize it.

"Anyone! Anyone, can . . . can anyone hear me?"

I blink my eyes open to find my chest, no longer glowing though still feeling on fire. The stars are back. Finally I have the clarity of mind to sit up, to look around me at the camp. At what's _happened_ to the camp.

Just like that night, essentially the one of Foehart's death – there isn't much left. The trees are even stripped this time, the horses run off, the ground covered in debris and unmoving bodies.

The voice comes again, from behind me somewhere in the wreckage. "Help, help, help, it's over, gods, it's all over isn't it? . . . someone help us, someone – " I turn sharply, rustling the debris around me. "Is that you, Merlin?" I call softly, moving to my knees. A decent-sized tree has fallen near where it came, muffled and hopeless as the sound is.

"Merlin?" I call again, and stand to seek it out.

But I nearly step on him in the process.

He lies on his back, body shivering still, but only every few seconds now. Like it's just an aftershock, too worn out to do anymore. His eyes are closed, but he can't be asleep; I can see the pain in his brow, the beads of sweat glittering in the cold starlight. His eyes open in slits, sensing me there. No longer gold.

"A- _arth_ ur?" he croaks, barely opening his mouth to do so.

"This is bloody perfect, Merlin," I hiss at him in utter relief, grabbing his limp arms and attempting to get him over my shoulder. "You flatten our captors, and yet _still_ manage to flatten _yourself_ in the process – "

" – Just leave me," he groans as I successfully sling him across my back.

I snort, looking around the battlefield of debris and bodies in a business-like manner. "Now's not the time for jokes. Let's go before -"

"Please, is that you Merlin? Please, whoever's there!" The ragged voice suddenly shrieks, the same one that called me out of that dark pit of unconsciousness before. But it's a desperate sound now; a cry of despair instead of a mournful plea.

I carry Merlin, moving towards the sound warily – and hardly keep my stomach when I round the fallen tree.

It's Gilli, the new recruit. He doesn't look too worse for wear: still pale, dirty, shaking and bloodied. But it's not his blood. Oh, no. His master, the nameless knight from our travels, lies pinned beneath the fallen trunk, right below where his previous injury lay. And though Gilli's hands are stoppered against the fallen man's wound, dark blood gushes from between the cracks in his fingers like from a leak in a bucket.

"I can't save him, I don't have it, I have nothing," he immediately starts babbling upon seeing us, almost forgetting to keep his hands on the wound. " _Merlin_ , please, let Merlin help me sir, please, save him sir," he goes on, looking at me with teary, bloodshot eyes. My mouth feels dry.

"Gilli," Merlin mutters, near my ear, and I understand the plea in his voice. But Merlin cannot help. Not in this weak state. I know it, he must know it – and yet. I know he'll never forgive me if I don't let him try.

I crouch, let Merlin slide off my back as gently as possible next to the dying man, and when he can hardly keep himself sitting upright I want to sling him back up in the next second, carry him away from here and trek to the safety of Camp that, funny enough in all this horror, is not two leagues off. We should leave, never once look back.

"Arthur, please," Merlin says, lifting up his arms.

Leave; never once look back.

"Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," I say quickly instead, after clasping his limp hands in mine. _Heal, save him. But - not at great cost_ , I add quickly.

The briefest of flashes in his eyes, and then Merlin is back to the same tired, wasted state. His hands shake as he places them gently over Gilli's bloody ones, above the wound. He closes his eyes for a second, opens them, let's out a string of those unintelligible words.

When Merlin's eyes don't even flash in the darkness, he bows his head in defeat.

"It's over then, is it?" Gilli asks in disbelief, eyes flicking between us like a cornered mouse. When Merlin says nothing, I give a slow nod to the recruit. "No, no, no, no – " he chants, slightly rocking over his guardian, patting the man's face as if that's all that's needed to revive him. Then the young recruit begins to sob big, horrible, ugly sobs into his curled-up knees, ones that quake from the very first ridge of his spine to the last. Hoarse, dreadful sounds escape from the back of his throat. And Merlin makes no move to comfort, to reach a hand out and soothe the pathetic thing.

So I say, "It'll be alright," just out of helplessness, and Gilli freezes. His face slowly lifts from his knees, and his eyes light up – not with the gold of magic, but the red of hatred.

"This is murder," he says, face wrecked and chin quivering. His mouse-like eyes bore into me, so intently I can't look away. "You've killed me," he says, echoing Merlin's words at the beginning, "all of you. I hate you _so much_ – you've taken everything, EVERYTHING!" He frees his hands, pointing at me with both of them, bloody black in the harsh moonlight. There's a dark, murderous intent to his demeanor. For a moment I think he might jump on me, strangle me with his soiled fingers, and I hunch for the fight.

Gilli flinches at my changed posture, but his eyes remain wild and reckless. "You - you can't do anything more to me now! IT'S OVER! Over before it'd even begun . . ." he mutters the last, eyes suddenly releasing me to fix on his guardian again. His master.

In a slash of movement he's pushing Merlin away – Merlin, who's stayed frozen through this whole speech, moving not a muscle – and crouching over the fallen man. With hands covered in the knight's very blood, Gilli's intent becomes much clearer. His hands reach out not to strangle me, but the unconscious knight.

Neither Merlin nor I do much besides gape as the dead man chokes on his recruit's grip, gags, and then truly dies.

Or stare in shock as, seconds later, Gilli jumps back from the body: clutching at _his own_ throat now.

I see it – just as the tendrils of black claiming marks, decorating his pale wrists as with all recruits and guardians, suddenly slither up his arm out of sight. And a moment later reappear, creeping like living shadows of skeletal hands, to completely encompass Gilli's throat. A dark, crude necklace.

His dirty face whitens, then reddens. His body starts convulsing, and he drops to his back, kicking like a trapped animal with a tortured yell. The marks are _choking_ him, somehow.

Then slowly he grows still, becomes silent. He gives one last kick and then his body no longer so much as twitches - the black necklace of the claim taking its final, mortal claim: the recruit himself.

All from the irreversible words, 'Ic fæstnian ēow.' _I bind thy life, to mine._

* * *

 **A/N: On that note . . . thanks for reading! I feel the need to say that the main antagonist of this fic is not Uther or Nimueh or the mad king of Camelot, but the claim itself, if that helps you understand why this chapter was necessary. If you didn't need help, cool! You're officially as evil as I am ;D**

 **catherine10: LOL Your reviews never fail to make me smile, or in this case laugh! Its good to hear you like the idea of Merlin exerting more of his will, though I must point out that he wasn't exactly conscious, haha. Thanks for your review :)**


	29. Futile Efforts

**29\. Futile Efforts**

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 **Summary:** _"What do you think you're doing," I say in what comes out as a hard tone, ignoring the fast pace of my heart. But it's clear he doesn't have a ready explanation, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water._

* * *

I stare at the pale corpse of the recruit Gilli with bile in my throat. There's a roaring in my ears, which I numbly understand is my own blood, rushing in time with my heart. My fingers shake.

Merlin meanwhile, weak-stomached as he often is, retches. His eyes speak of horror even after he recovers, round and wide not just at the body – but at the thick, black coil at its neck. Where the claim took it's claimed, on to the grave.

I've heard countless times that when a guardian dies, their recruit suffers the same death. But I'd never imagined it happened like this.

I shake away the pounding sound against my brain and stand, ignoring the wreckage around us. It's time to move. Merlin in turn ignores me, silent when I reach him. "Let's . . . we need to go." I hesitantly put a hand on his thin shoulder.

Merlin flinches away like I've stung him.

We won't be able to move unless I resume carrying him. He must realize that. And yet, when I forcefully grab his hands, pull to hoist him up again, Merlin realizes and starts fighting. Wrenching away, kicking like a child. "Merlin!" I shout, trying to jolt him out of this; his eyes are wide, not mouse-like as with Gilli. Doe -like. Blinking at me like I've blinded him. " _Merlin_! Snap out of it!"

A cuff to the head finally manages to knock away that lost expression and somewhat return him to his wits - though after I've struck him he considers me like I'm about to do worse. I ignore it. "We need to get out of here. I don't know how many of these ruffians are dead and how many are merely unconscious, but we don't have much time before _some_ kind of trouble will find us again. We need to leave, _now_."

It doesn't matter if not a word of that reached his ears, because the second I hear myself say it the last of the dull roar in my head fades.

The rest of the night is spent walking; interchangeably pulling Merlin along or carrying him along. I can't decide which is worse – the one side of me that he doesn't lean on freezing when we walk, or the sweat that cools almost to ice down my back and over my brow after so long when carrying him. Winter has arrived, and without Merlin's feverish heat from the night before we are quickly chilling to the bone.

"Merlin," I grit through my teeth as dawn slowly approaches, refusing to stutter through my shivers. We're taking a rest, and his back is to me where we sit on the icy roots of an old tree. His arm is moving, doing something. "We should keep going. We can't be far from the river now."

He doesn't answer, which isn't surprising at this point. "Then we'll be close enough to the Outer Ring," I continue muttering anyway, "scouts will spot us. W-we'll be sent help."

His right elbow jerks back in a strange way, and I stare in confusion as it does so again. And again, like he's pulling at something, almost.

I rise, walking as quietly as I can to see past his hunched shoulders. His right arm jerks back just as I do so, giving me a clear view of what exactly his hand has been doing.

His nails are poised against the skin of his other wrist, and his arm jerks back once more – hand clawing at the markings the claim has put on them. The skin should be red, irritated and hot by now; perhaps it would be, if the sheer amount of thick black lines didn't cover almost every inch where he has his sleeve pulled up. I watch numbly as he claws down yet another time, the profile of his face frozen and expressionless.

But when his eyes suddenly flicker to a nearby, jagged stone, and his hand reaches for it, curls it around his fingers sets it against his skin presses _down_ –

My sharp inhale halts Merlin's motion; he looks at me like I've appeared out of nowhere, eyes blinking and throat bobbing.

"What do you think you're doing," I manage in what comes out as a hard tone, ignoring the fast pace of my heart. But it's clear he doesn't have a ready explanation, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I'm to him in an instant, pulling his struggling, skinny frame up roughly by the wrists. He keeps his eyes down; but this close it's easy to catch how his jaw clenches as I wrench the rock from his grip and throw it out of sight. "That – that won't do _anything_ , Merlin – "

"You think I don't know that?" he cuts back in an icy tone, eyes just as cold as they abruptly rise, bore into mine. The first thing he's said in hours. Since " _Arthur, please_."

"Then what kind of foolishness is this?" I hold up his left wrist, and like I expected it's warm to the touch.

He wrenches out of my grip, glaring.

"Oh, Arthur, don't tell me you _care_?"

A vicious, rhetorical question, and I could throw a whole battalion of cursory insults back; they line up in my head, waiting. But I remember Nimueh's words, explaining the futile efforts of the recruits who'd attempted to get rid of the claim. And the gruesome consequences. A scare tactic perhaps, but it was an effective one, at that. At the time I'd felt my stomach flip from the last description, and Merlin seemed nauseated for a good two hours after.

Yet I fear, now, that that's not actually what Merlin wants to get rid of.

"We need to keep going," I say yet another time, realizing I've been silent too long.

In any other situation I'd walk off and leave him to follow till we reached the river, spend some needed time away from his dark mood. But Merlin is still weak in body if not still in mind. He's here, and if I leave him he won't be able to follow – having him use magic in an attempt to heal himself will do nothing but add to that weakness, after using up probably every reserve of energy he owned leveling the camp and saving our lives.

So without preamble I pull his arm over my shoulder again and practically drag him along.

My knee hurts. My head pounds. Numbly I think I still feel a burning at my chest, and at one point look down only to stifle a gasp: there's a spot on my clothes, just where my heart is, that looks blackened. I don't say anything to Merlin, who is throwing waves of hostility at me so blatantly I can't just be feeling it because of our connection. I don't feel like asking him what this means - what he did, or I did, or what the claim _didn't_.

I ignore it all for now, focused on keeping one foot in front of the other. And mercifully the river eventually is visible, a couple hours later. Merlin actually breathes out a sigh of relief, and I inwardly do so as well. The Outer Ring is perhaps an hour away at most, now.

We stop at the bank of it, me eyeing its frozen state in speculation. The middle can't be too much better than when our group cut across, but there's little time to be picky about where we're crossing. The first step feels like hard ground still anyway, and my confidence grows as we near half-way point and Merlin hasn't so much as slipped.

"Almost there," I grit through my teeth. My whole body is practically shaking with cold, and Merlin's as well – the wind is worse without trees to buffer it. But we've practically made it when it happens.

A groan, followed by _a pop and a crack_ , stops us in our tracks. Merlin's eyes widen at me. "MOVE," I shout, practically carrying him by the arm as I make a break for the other side of the river. The ice groans again beneath us, moves beneath our feet.

I feel it the second Merlin slips, his weight dropping and hanging against me for a second before we're pulled apart. Then the icy air hits my right side in his absence, as forceful as any blow. There's a splash. I stagger and can barely keep my feet under me, shouting " _MERLIN!"_ as I whip around to find the idiot. But there's no sight of him.

He's slipped beneath the surface.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading and for all your lovely comments! They make my day. You are wonderful people. I'd also like to shout out to all the awesome new followers: HIIIIIII. Welcome, and good to have you here :)**

 **catherine10: Lol Thanks! Or if you mean Gilli, yeah I would agree that's one way to try and take back control of your fate. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!**

 **Guest: Great, I'm glad the scene was good even if it was technically rather horrible, heehee. And Uther plus others will be antagonists, just not the overarching one like the claim really is. Thank you and I'm so glad you liked it :D**


	30. Black Water

**30\. Black Water**

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Summary: " _We've got to get out of here," I say out loud, or try to. My voice comes out as raspy as an old man, and I blink away the water freezing in my eyelashes to shake Merlin._

* * *

There are cracks everywhere; fissures in the ice that turn it into a web of plates instead of a single surface. But one spot is not just a crack – I see a man-sized hole of black, rippling water, not far off.

Without hesitation I run to it, almost fall into a crack myself, slide to my knees and immediately plunge my arms into the dark river. I bite my lip hard enough to bleed as a hundred icy knives stab against my submerged skin.

"M-m-m-merlin, M-merlin, _you idiot_ , M-m-merlin –!" I chatter over and over, heart freezing even quicker than my waving arms when I feel nothing but thick, empty nothingness in the water. And its not surprising, even if he knows how to swim. "M-m-merlin, I s-s- _swear_ , i-if you d-d-don't c-come out r-r-r-right n- _NOW_ – "

But then my left hand finds a similarly stiff, frozen hand. "MERLIN!" I shout uselessly, trying to grab at it, trying to see him in the black icy depths. My fingers won't curl anymore, though – they brush uselessly against the hand, until they don't any longer, and that simply _cannot_ happen.

I dive in.

The knives from before gladly stab into the rest of me. I gasp in surprise – at the absoluteness, the absolute freakishness of such a sensation, heat almost literally being stripped from a body in all of a second – and in so doing, the stabbing reaches the innermost part of me: my lungs fill with water.

I'm submerged completely in the black, merciless, biting river now. A river that is _moving_ , underneath the ice. It would succeed stripping even coherency from me, as well – if it wasn't for the hand I bump once more, this time against my shoulder. I try to blindly move with my arms, ignoring the screaming protests from my instincts to kick, to run, to _live_ , and manage instead to get an arm under what's probably Merlin's armpit. But there's no way to know which way is down, to death, and which is up, to survive. Not unless I surrender the last of me.

Opening my eyes seems like a worthless plan at first, after I do so; my nerves are too busy processing the absolute pain of the arctic water to process any excuse for sight. After a long, drawn-out moment I finally recognize light from dark; dark being the murky depths just ahead, and light being whatever's reflecting against Merlin's blurred, still, upturned face just in front of me.

Escape is behind, then.

I kick back so our bodies move toward that light. Each motion leaves my muscles cramping in pain, but I persevere. Another kick, in the direction I can only hope is upwards, then another. My legs scream in protest, muscles shaking, and yet. Another. _Another_. But then my back erupts in pain as the current slams me into the ice blocking the surface. I almost lose my hold on Merlin, shocked that there is no longer an opening. We are encased here, and my lungs burn for air.

I feel at the layer, trying to at once not lose Merlin and punch through as the current moves us. Its an impossible task as my body weakens. And then the current moves us faster and my head hits the ice instead, knocking almost all the sense from me.

But it must have been a weak point. My face meets the air, and suddenly I can cough. I grab at the ice with my hand just as the current tries to pull me back down again, towing Merlin out with the other arm. All the while sputtering out frozen water and finally managing a few gulps of the precious commodity. The frozen ice feels like a plush pillow as I get us both out of the water.

Merlin doesn't stir; his lips are blue, and his body won't even shiver.

"We've got to get out of here," I say out loud, or try to. My voice comes out as raspy as an old man, and I blink away the water freezing in my eyelashes to shake Merlin. "Merlin," I say, and when he doesn't respond I resort to dragging him by the arms. My head is spinning but I manage the rest of the way, off the river and onto the bank.

"m-Merlin, s-s-stop check-k-k-k-king out on m-m-me," I attempt to say once I've set him down there, this time a little less raspy but almost completely unintelligible thanks to my newly shaking jaw. I kneel beside him to shake his shoulders. "Y-y-y-y-you're n-n- _not_ allo-o-owed to d-d-d-d-die on m- _me_ , m-Merlin."

My heart stops when I lean down to check his – feeling and hearing nothing. "m- _Mer_ lin!" I say, pounding a fist on his chest in desperation. I can feel my voice tighten and crack as I protest, "W-w-w-we've alm-m-m-most m-made it you id-d-d-diot! W e-we-we're almost th-th-there!"

But that doesn't seem to matter much to him. I wonder, remembering back to the sharp edge of the rock, carefully-placed at the skin of his wrist, if this is what he would have wanted anyway.

The thought brings no comfort. I'm shaking over his still form in helplessness, racking my brain for impossible cures and forgotten remedies. Treatments that, even if hopeful, would be useless and pointless in the face of our absolute lack of _any_ provisions. When my last resort is grabbing both his frozen stiff hands with either of mine, croaking out, "I-Ic alīesan ēow anw-w-w-weald, d-d-don m-mīn ferð," and screaming in my mind, _YOU CANNOT DIE, YOU WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES, YOU_ HAVE TO LIVE – that's when I know it's hopeless.

There's the smallest fizzle down through my arms. But his eyes are closed. I can't tell, yet still I know they can't have flashed.

It makes a kind of sense - he's used up his entire reserve of energy. Even as my heart tugs, the magic trapped in my soul reaching for his, there is no longer any willpower inside him to harness it, even if he were conscious enough to mutter a spell.

So I gently release his cold, stiff fingers and place them on the frozen bank. My head falls of its own accord then, too heavy to keep aright, and lands on his sternum. On his small, unmoving chest. There's a burning at my eyes, the first sensation of warmth I've felt since Merlin's feverish back, and my immediate response is to blink it away. I can't recall how long I've reigned in the feeling in times past.

But not any longer. The burning refuses to leave, quickly followed by a strange sort of pain at the center of my chest. I try to breathe, and the air only catches in my throat. I'm drowning all over again. Its the worst sensation I've ever felt - like my body is _trying to die_ with Merlin.

When the first sob escapes, I finally give into it. I let the burning give way to hot tears, slipping down my frozen cheeks. I allow the pain in my chest to release in increments, as my body finally allows me to breathe. But its only in short bursts, and that's when I realize what's happening. I'm crying. Weeping, like I couldn't for Yalta, like I couldn't for Foehart, but can for a recruit.

For the friend I never wanted in the first place, but in the end selfishly wanted to keep.

 _I don't want to do this anymore,_ I've repeated so many times, like a prayer.

Yet now I'd give up anything, _anything_ , to take that prayer back.

My mind doesn't even register when the chest begins to move beneath me, ever-so-slightly. It doesn't process when my ears hear weak coughing, so near. It's not until a hand, in an almost awkward manner, pats me on the arm a little, that I look up and see the slits of Merlin's glowing eyes open. The rattling breath coming in and out of his lips.

After a good minute of choking up river water and breathing, just _breathing_ , the color of them finally fades back to blue and I can hardly grin without biting my tongue off. But I manage it.

"m-m-m- _Mer_ lin, y-y-you i-i- _id-d-diot_ ," I say affectionately, not caring for this instant that I sound like a great, weepy girl as I do so. "C-c-c-come h-h-h-h-h- _here_."

We start huddling together for body warmth, though it's little help considering how absolutely drenched our clothing is. Merlin is ever-so-slightly warm still against me, somehow, and I pray and pray a stray scout will find us. _Anyone_ will find us.

"D-d-d-din't h-h-have t-to sh- _shout_ s-s-so b-b-b-b-bloody l- _loud_ -d," he stutters at one point, nudging with an elbow I think. I can't much feel it.

I puzzle over that almost dreamily, wondering in my head if he means when I aliesanned his magic. Can he actually hear what I think in that moment as well? How strange.

"Y-y-y-you w-w-were d- _dead_ -d-d," I say, in way of explanation, which seems to satisfy him enough in answer.

But then: "I-I don't w-want to d-die," he murmurs, this time much quieter yet better. And sounding even a bit shocked, at his own words, though my mind fills with a dizzying relief.

Our clothing is stiffening, now, freezing in place, and after such a long night I am so _dreadfully_ tired, and I think quite belatedly that there was no use in having Merlin's magic save him if he _is_ only to die when I die. But I hardly think I have the energy to even move, much less speak and tell him so.

I should probably sheath the power I've given him – to save himself, to do whatever it takes to live – with peace, an end, and his true name, like always. Like I've been drilled to do.

Yet for some reason Nimueh's threats, as to what would happen if I _didn't_ , all seem quite empty now. I smile inwardly, maybe even not so inwardly, at what a good idea it will be to leave Merlin with that ability. To never take it back.

 _I don't want to die_ , he's just said.

Maybe, this way, he'll never have to.

"S'snowing," Merlin mutters now, and I realize my eyes are closed. I open them to find him right. Thick, white chunks of the stuff have been streaming down on us, perhaps for a while. I smile about that as well, though my eyes seem to want to shut again. I let them. Finally things are getting warm, comfortable; perhaps the snow is acting as a blanket. Either way my limbs are no longer shaking and nothing is so harsh and sharp any longer. I doze, strange spiraling dreams in my head.

Almost none of me hears Merlin's concerned, "A-Arthur? Arthur, s-s-stay aw-wake . . ." before the dreams spiral me away entirely.

* * *

 **A/N: It was perfect timing for this chapter, because my apartment has been freezing the entire weekend! Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear from you all.**

 **catherine10: Merlin is always going to get annoyed or angry at Arthur. I feel like that happened at least once every episode in canon! So yeah, you can expect that to continue. And Leon and Morgana will keep showing up! Both of them play especially larger roles in the second part of this series :) Thanks for your review!**


	31. Burning Heart

**31\. Burning Heart**

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Summary: _A rush of emotions hits me like a blow: a staggering portion of shock at this display, a large portion of intense discomfort at such an alien act – and relief. A betraying amount of hope that perhaps, somewhere in his soul, my father holds a single care for me._

* * *

The strange, spiraling dreams have even stranger sequences to them: Merlin's voice screaming in fear from a great distance, the rumbling of a deep voice, and the strange sensation of fate's breath blowing against my frozen face. Then finally easy, simple things I'm accustomed to dreaming about, like Yilgrid's smile and Uther's punishments and Foehart casually calling me 'son.'

The next thing I'm aware of is concerned muttering; muted, anxious tones, low voices that I would almost recognize if there wasn't cotton in my ears. And there must be a load of it, because everything is thick and fuzzy anyway, too muted to comprehend. Merlin must be nearby too, because I am most comfortably warm, almost burning at the center of my chest. Perhaps he is making the muttering – though, upon a little reflection, I don't think either of our voices are so low yet.

No, these are adults, somewhere. Somewhere far, because the noise fades away and I'm left to sleep in relative peace again.

When I finally make it to full awareness, however, it's to meet almost perfect silence. There's no sound to wake me; my eyes simply blink open and take in the familiar sight of the infirmary tent, Gaius albeit absent. An absolute mountain of blankets is over top me, obstructing much from view, and I'm almost sweating from the stifling warmth.

But it's the burning that woke me. Much hotter than stifling, it's the same flame in my chest as before, except this time with a much less urgent, continuous flare. I try sitting up, scooting back the blankets a little – to examine exactly where my skin should be on fire.

With little surprise I find no flames but a large, thick white bandage right above my heart, as if there once were. Shirtless, the path of the claim lines mark up my shoulders to meet at that very point, now covered up. I dare not look and see what lies beneath.

"Arthur," says a politely surprised voice, Muirden coming into view. He has a slight, half-smile on his face that must have taken a lot of effort to put there. "You're awake."

He's gone in an instant, no doubt to get Gaius, and I successfully prop up on my elbows, taking mental account of any and all injuries. Behind the gnawing burn there's little; a slightly smarting cut on my knee I feel now but hadn't barely noticed out in the cold, an ache at the back of my head from the blow delivered to knock me out. Overall my body does feel fragile, weak; as if brittle ice has replaced my bones ever since jumping into that freezing water. I wonder how long I've been out.

Gaius enters and quickly relieves that knowledge: "Arthur, it's good to see you with your eyes open. You've slept away two and a half days." He settles himself in a stool placed by my bedside, looking appropriately somber. My mind catches up with this, calculating what must have happened in the time past – but immediately every thought jumps to the same focus.

"Gaius. Where's Mer – where is the, my, recruit?"

The unspoken question lies distinctly even in my stuttering words, and his eyebrow raises. "He is fine, or will be quite soon, I think, confined in your tent for now," the old man says quite intuitively, though his answer leaves me no more appeased.

"What do you mean 'or will be,' exactly?"

He sighs. "Merlin brought you here by quite – say, _unnatural_ , means. And as you've been unconscious, there's obviously been no way for you to sheath the power again. Lord Uther has required I give him heavy sleeping drafts – and when he is awake, Morgana as always is in charge of alternative restraint."

My eyes widen, remembering how Merlin fared the first time Morgana was required to use the poppet spell on him; unfocused, feverish. Mindless. Nimueh even hinted that it was killing the boy – though that may have just been a rouse to convince Uther he needed to plan the claim as soon as possible, for whatever her reasons.

Gauis sees my look of alarm and quickly provides assurances. "Do not worry, young lord, he's awake only very briefly. No lasting harm should come of it – I am keeping a sharp eye on him, I can assure you." And the old man looks so sincere I can do nothing but believe him.

"Arthur!"

I don't hardly recognize the voice at all – or perhaps I do, for the amount it startles me even before I turn towards the sound. My father is a blur of movement as he runs in, stopping just short of the bed to stare at me expressionless. I can't tell if his exclamation is one of relief or merely surprise; I clear my throat, attempting at sitting up more.

"I – I'm sorry I've been unable to report," I start, feeling small under his intense gaze, "as to what happened. It's a very imperfect account, sir, as I have no idea how the men managed to win out in the first – "

Completely unresponsive to my words, my father falls to the side of my bed and seizes my hand with both of his, dropping to rest his forehead there. Much like I'd done over Merlin's dying body, I realize. A rush of emotions hits me like a blow: a staggering portion of shock at this display, a large portion of intense discomfort at such an alien act – and relief. A betraying amount of hope that perhaps, somewhere in his soul, my father holds a single care for me.

My mind catches up with my ears, and a third label for his exclamation crawls into light of consideration: _joy_. Just maybe, just perhaps.

Gaius quietly leaves, as if this is a close moment between father and son, and the lord takes no notice. When he finally lifts his head, eyes dry but almost drinking in the sight of me, he says, "Never mind that, Arthur."

And after thirteen years of never hearing such unbridled emotion in the voice of the man now kneeling before me, I can only blink in surprise at it. Wonder what on earth I should say next.

My father doesn't appear to need a response, however, continuing quietly, "I immediately sent out a group of knights, even on the word of your recruit, and the tale proved true. There's no knowing if all the men involved died, or a way to account for them. But we will soon track down the root of this evil. Justice will be met." He fully stands, his voice having grown in volume as he speaks. Acting much more the usual commanding warlord, and I find myself more at ease.

"They spoke of a man named Kanen, sir," I say, remembering. "If not their true leader, he was still the cause for their attack. He has them searching, looking for some famed sorc – recruit, I think. Either way: this was his doing."

"Kanen," my father's eyes narrowed, trying out the name in his mouth with distaste. "I will search into the name." I nod solemnly, trying to get up once again and grimacing at the flare in my chest. "Gaius says you were burnt, perhaps on purpose. Did they – did the men . . . ?" he trails off, gesturing at my chest in a surprisingly hesitant manner.

Torture, he means. I have no idea what to say. Certainly not a lie. But, the truth? That my chest lit up like it had trapped a flaring sun, just before Merlin unwittingly leveled the entire camp, claim be damned, and it burned hot as pressed coals, not against my skin, but _beneath_ my skin?

I suddenly remember once again the knight from the Darkling Woods, with the huge burn all across his chest. Having lost his recruit completely, having become a shell of himself as well ever since. My eyes flit down to the much smaller plane of fabric bandaging my own burn, and a part of me shudders. The complete shattering of the claim's rules seems to have saved our lives – or has it?

No one can know about the true events of that night. I cannot tell my father, I cannot tell Leon or Gaius or Nimueh or Gwen or even Morgana. Especially not of my growing fear that the sorcerer the men were ordered to search for very likely _is_ Merlin.

My father nods curtly. My prolonged silence has apparently been telling enough for the warlord; his eyes have darkened, and he leaves only with a "Rest now," before departing without a glance backward.

I wonder at the dark revenge he will seek, and can't find it in myself to care.


	32. Silent Keeper

**32\. Silent Keeper**

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Summary: " _Do it again," he instructs, and I gulp before closing my eyes, imagining nothing, nothing like a faraway island on a –_

* * *

As my father's commanding figure leaves, a tentative Gaius reenters.

"Let's see about getting you on your feet," he says kindly, crossing over to a large cabinet full of all sorts of concoctions. I watch in distaste, as the old man's potions are always extremely unpleasant, but my body is itching to stand upright. To make it back to my tent, and see with my own eyes that Merlin is not the shivering mess I last saw him as.

So I down whatever it is he picks out without any complaint – unless you count the violent shudder I release immediately from the taste of what must be piss and rotten fruit boiled into one – and after a drawn out ten minutes he allows me to get up. Then the old man pulls up a pair of trousers from a pile of clothes, presenting it to me, and I stare in incomprehension until a cold draft wafts from the small gaps of the tent.

Blushing, I pull them on quickly.

After more layers and boots, carefully minding my injuries, he's leading me, or more accurately _shepherding_ me, out the door in such a careful way I almost want to plow the man over myself and finally end this worried anticipation. Gaius seems to sense my agitation, though, patting me on the arm with a soft, "Merlin _is_ fine, my lord."

"Of course he is," I immediately bluster, almost afraid of the understanding look he's giving me. "But – you don't know, Gaius, he's going to be an absolute _grump_ about having to be drugged, and _I'll_ have to deal with it." I don't think he quite believes me, but saying it at least seems to slightly calm my own anxiety.

It turns out, of course, that when we reach the infirmary Merlin's frowning slumber morphs into a completely relieved, entirely-not-awake smile instead. Its sleepy and indirectly at me when I roughly rouse him, shaking his limp shoulder. Morgana, nearby, smirks and I realize I probably have an equally dopey smile pulling at my own lips.

"Arrr….tthhrrrrr," Merlin tries to say, blinking heavy eyes up at me.

"You sound drunk," I tell him, my smile nearly splitting my face, and Merlin shakes his head dramatically.

"M'fine," he manages to mumble, and then blinks his eyes shut. He begins to snore.

"I don't know how you stand sleeping in the same tent as him every night," Morgana says, crossing her arms and standing. "The first time he started snoring I thought a pig had escaped its pen."

I laugh. "I've never heard him before."

"No doubt an effect of the sleeping draft I gave him then, just a few hours ago," Gaius interjects from where he stands, still at the door.

Morgana smirks. "Or the fact you snore yourself like a well-fed hog."

"Better than the ruckus _you_ make sleeping -"

"Morgana, may I have a word privately with his young lordship?" Gaius interrupts before I can finish. She directs narrowed eyes at me before turning to him and nodding. Once her cloak is on and the door flap tied shut behind her, Gaius clear his throat.

"I wanted to ask, my lord: Do you remember how you got that burn?"

Immediately I stiffen, though try to be casual as I stand to face him. "I can't remember," I shake my head, schooling my face so it doesn't so much as twitch when Gaius frowns. "Do you think it will heal?"

"In time, yes," he nods and walks over to the small table where Morgana had been sitting. He touches the stray scraps of cloth littered on it before looking back up at me. "Were you unconscious, then?" I nod. He nods back, slowly, not so much as blinking as he looks at me.

"Your father instructed me to supervise you taking away the – well, the teleportation, or whatever it is you seemed to have given him that saved both your lives," Gaius explains, clasping his hands in front of him in a professional manner. I inwardly freeze, again nodding stiffly on the surface but wondering if this will be a very simple thing to fake.

 _You cannot die. You will do whatever it takes. You have to live,_ I'd granted Merlin.

I can at least let him keep that, can't I?

Gaius is silent, eyes very present on my back as I look down at Merlin and try to clear my head. Think of nothing, absolutely nothing, keeping my body hopefully still enough that it looks like I'm concentrating. Then after an appropriate amount of time I sigh and glance up at Gaius, nodding.

He frowns.

The old man shuffles over, eyebrow cocked as he inspects not me, but Merlin, something about the way the boy sleeps apparently not quite satisfactory. "Do it again," he instructs, and I gulp before closing my eyes, imagining nothing, nothing like a faraway island on a –

 _NO_. I push the instinctual thoughts aside, focusing on anything, _anything_ that will distract. The way my father's cool indifferent face bites harder than his anger, the words Gilli spat after I attempted to comfort him, eyes glowing with a red hatred. Merlin smiling just now, probably in the middle of a good dream about his mum and his friend Will and that tiny little village, leagues away.

It's enough. I blink my eyes open, triumphant, only to find Gaius's watery blue ones boring down into mine even further. His eyebrow has practically disappeared into his hairline. "Do you think it worked that time?" he asks quite solemnly, as if the answer is of the greatest importance.

I hesitate, wondering if he will take my word for it and leave. Leave Merlin alone, for once in the boy's life here. Or, if this is a test, to assess my true loyalties, and what I will lose if I fail.

I have no time, though, to assess for myself the damage capable of being done with the words, "Yes. Yes, definitely." So I say them.

He nods, once more, then again, slowly moving his head up and down like his neck's gone unhinged. Old eyes flicker to my chest, right where the bandage is wrapped snugly under my clothing. "I must ask you, Arthur. Your father didn't want to press, with you only having just opened your eyes in so long. But – "

He purses his lips, saying no more, and I sigh in what sounds like annoyance, though is more accurately a product of the tightening fist around my heart. "Do go on, Gaius," I manage in a vexed tone, though silently pleading otherwise.

Gaius does go on. "Nimueh confirms she has never taught Merlin to vanish, reappear elsewhere. It is essentially a – an impossible accomplishment, for all but the most gifted and experienced priestesses of the matriarchy. And that's without also bringing another person. Even if you aliesanned Merlin to do so, he could not have success unless he was properly trained in such a feat. Impossible, to say the least."

Gaius stares at me, expectantly, arms behind his back, and I try for a shrug. "Where is the question in that?"

He huffs. "It's not so much a question than a request for your explanation, my lord. As to _how_ you and Merlin ended up in front of the Inner Ring communal campfire, in the middle of midday meal, out of nowhere. You unconscious, him barely not."

"I don't know," I answer honestly, unable to stop my eyes at widening from the tale. "I told him, aliesanned him as you said, to simply save us. Honestly I . . . I don't remember much else." I brace myself as Gaius processes this, mouth working in suggestive ponderance.

Eventually he sighs. "I suppose Merlin will know a little more of the tale," he agrees, though makes no move to leave. "Perhaps the boy might remember the cause of this, as well." Gaius taps a finger in the air above where my heart is, where the smarting burn still flares. "It appears in some way, at least, the boy saved your life."

"Yes," I immediately agree, "Twice."

"And no more years in age than you are, I'd guess," he adds. "I . . . I hope you will do right by him, my lord."

I stare at him, then, unsettled by the intensity of the old man's eyes. Gaius looks at me like I'm holding the fate of the world in my hands. "I - Yes. I mean, I will try, Gaius." I clear my throat, adding softly, "There are many things I can't protect him from."

He nods solemnly, then heaves a gusting sigh. "But no matter. Try one more time for me, just to make sure you've done it right," he adds a bit too nonchalantly, gesturing ambiguously. But I know exactly what he means.

I suck in a lungful of air, squeezing my eyes shut, and immediately grope blindly for a good distracting memory as I hold the breath inside. My mind comes up with Yilgrid; younger, no older than my current thirteen years, ripping dried husks and fashioning dolls out of the rough material. Giving them to me and her brother Rais, to "make travels" with. We ended up muddying, ripping apart and overall destroying the husk men; she laughed. It's a sound only in my memories now, one I haven't been privy to in months, among other things, and whilst dwelling on it my thoughts stay successfully away from anything to do with a peaceful space, an end, and a certain name.

After an appropriate amount of time I open my eyes, relax my shoulders and wait for Gaius's edict.

It never comes. He walks to the tent entrance; stops a moment to pass me a wane but genuine smile, like I've just pleased him – and exits.

Merlin rolls over in his sleep and I finally let out that breath.

* * *

 **A/N: You guys, April is here. I'm so scared. I have finals and a wedding (NOT mine, my sister's) to get through in the coming weeks, so I apologize in advance for how sporadic these updates are going to be. Bear with me.**

 **In case you want to hear a personal aside, I procrastinated writing two different reports that were due at midnight, and did each of them in less than two hours. I cannot describe to you how I managed it - sheer willpower, maybe. I'm worried that I'v used it up now, though, and there's still another week and a half before my last final. AHHHH! Send good thoughts my way, if you have any to spare.**

 **Just A Reviewer: -waves back- Hi! Nice to hear from you! Yes, Uther does have a tiny flame of warmth in his cold, black heart. Dragons, yes! I know I keep teasing about them, but they're seriously a big part of the over-arching plot! In Recruit (SPOILER) they're more towards the end, though. And you were totally right, Morgana was in this update, lol. She'll get more important over time. I hope you had a great time skiing, that sounds awesome! Anyways, thanks and hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**

 **catherine10: Haha yes! A very valuable lesson, one he continues to remember through this update too (though it probably wouldn't have hurt to explain it all to Gaius, Arthur just can't be too careful). Thanks for your review, I appreciate it!**


	33. Night Visions

**33\. Night Visions**

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Summary: " _I don't know what will happen," I sigh. "I don't know if we're staying here, or leaving again. But if you want to stay alive no one, especially my father, can know how we escaped."_

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In the week that follows Lord Uther visits me twice more, both in the guise of checking up on me to interrogate what else I can remember of the attack down to the tiniest detail. He doesn't once mention planning a new trip to take me and Merlin to the front lines, though I hold little hope for otherwise. Each time his demeanor grows angrier and angrier, likely by the lack of information I'm able to give.

"Scoundrels, somehow under orders by a man named 'Kanen,' slaughter a group of my men to find a sorcerer who can break the claim," he repeats slowly during his second visit, frustration brewing in his voice. "That is all you know."

"Yes, sir." I swallow, bowing my head. "I don't know what source they had to - "

"Source?" The warlord laughs coldly. "Those orders would be ludicrous, if they were based on true sources. The claim is irreversible, impenetrable, unbreakable, and anyone here could tell those vermin that without prompting. Utter foolishness, that was their mission." Then he tells me we will train again with Nimueh until I'm fully recovered. What happens after I am is left unsaid.

He doesn't visit again after that, which I can't help feeling relieved for.

But Merlin isn't much company as I recover either, twitchy and distant and distracted at the best of times. At night he tosses in his sleep like he's wrestling with the blankets, saying things like, "Help," or "It'll work, it'll work . . ."

I can't help but be aware now in a way I wasn't. There's the slightest tugging in my chest - a mild, but still heart-flipping sensation - reminding me every time he is near that there is a portion of magic, however minute, still free. And by the way he avoids my gaze in the day while bringing Gaius's prescribed meals, watching Gaius redress the burn, or even supporting me as I walk, he must notice something as well.

Sure enough one night Merlin wakes me up with his restless dreaming, breathing fast and shouting a wordless cry. I can tell as he deliberately slows his breathing, no longer moving so much, that I'm not the only one awake. The tent is quiet. I sigh, thinking the worst is over - till I recognize the slight hitches in breath, growing louder and louder as the boy can't conceal his sobs.

I get off my cot and move the short distance across the tent, kneeling where I think he must be in the dark. Merlin's next sob immediately hitches and stops when he realizes. "What are you crying about?" I whisper, spotting his eyes glistening before he hastily wipes at them.

"Nothing," Merlin says, rolling away, and I let out a long-suffering sigh.

"The mission ended very badly, I'll give you that," I say, poking his back. "Is that why you're crying? Because Gilli died?"

Merlin shoves my hand away, glaring up at me. "And if it was?"

"It isn't though, is it?"

His eyes slot closed, chest moving as the boy takes in a deep breath and sighs it out. "I . . . I'm not sure. But. I don't think my magic returned to me because the claim wanted me to save you."

"I don't think so either." Merlin's eyes shoot open, apparently surprised to hear me agree. "You are the sorcerer the men were looking for," I continue, voicing the thought I've had ever since returning to coherency in the infirmary. "So you're scared, because they're trying to find you."

Merlin blinks, still shocked for a moment. But then he sniffs and shakes his head. "I don't care who wants to take me. My life's already been permanently taken," he says bluntly, and grabs my forearm for emphasis. Where my own marks are, claiming his magic. "But, almost ever since it returned to me that once, I can almost . . . _feel_ my magic, like its . . . a part of me again. Almost." His eyes start to glisten again, throat bobbing once.

I look away and don't answer. I think back on Gaius's constant pressing, whether the abilities I'd aliesanned Merlin had been locked away again. But the ability itself is an exception: to do whatever it takes to live. And, most of the time, magic is not required for that. It must be hovering there, then, available only in the few instances he will need it to keep himself alive.

"Do you . . . would you rather, that it went back to the way it was before?" I ask hesitantly, though, wondering if the torture of it outweighs all that.

Merlin laughs, the welled tears slipping down his cheeks. "Back to when I felt nothing at all, you mean? No. _Never_. Its almost like, I'm myself again."

I don't understand it, obviously, how intimately connected recruits are to the magic usually inside them. Strong enough, I suppose, that it can be stretched and barred but still, if only allowed for a short period, return to them once more. Yet I've seen how some who practice magic have very little actual gift for it, and the claiming ceremony stops when the ring of flames disperses and no one is chosen. My father has them killed, shortly after.

Which further proves how incredibly powerful Merlin is, with the claim controlling and dampening it, and how much more powerful he might be with all his magic at once. Frightening, really. If Camelot had more like him fighting on their side, the war would have been over long ago.

Which explains why Nimueh seemed so keen on Lord Uther inducting Merlin to the claim ceremony. His power likely rivals her own. 'A great weapon,' as my father once said. For whatever reason, Nimueh seems to truly want my father to win the war.

"I don't know what will happen," I sigh. "I don't know if we're staying here, or leaving again. But if you want to stay alive no one, especially my father, can know how we escaped."

"Well I still don't know," Merlin replies, almost angry. "It wasn't me, Arthur. I know those men were looking for a recruit who had power over the claim, but I didn't do anything to take it. I wasn't even all there in the head when everything came rushing back."

His admittance takes me by surprise; but it doesn't change anything. "That doesn't matter," I tell him. "Not even enough to ask Morgana about. Its not worth it. Swear to me you won't say a word to her or _anyone_ , alright?" I watch stubbornly until Merlin closes his eyes and nods.

"Arthur, wait," he says when I start to get up.

"What is it?"

"I don't want to go back to sleep." Merlin's mouth quirks into a surprisingly sheepish smile.

I roll my eyes. "So I'm not allowed to either, then?"

"Are you tired?" He sits up and I crouch back down, raising an eyebrow.

"What are we supposed to do, then?"

He chews his lip, thinking for a minute, before a strange light sparks in his eye. "What is your favorite thing?" he asks, grinning. I raise an eyebrow.

". . . To do?"

Merlin shrugs. "Sure."

I think hard for a moment, though its hard not to be distracted with the question of _why_ Merlin is asking. What kind of test is this? What could the correct answer possibly be? "Swim," I finally decide, though it doesn't sound like the truth coming out of my mouth. "Or at least it used to be before I recently had to drag your useless self out of the water." Merlin laughs, and I chuckle.

It continues on like that, Merlin asking the strangest of questions like, "What bones have you broken?" or "Where would you want to go if you could travel anywhere?" and me stumbling through my answers. He responds to them as well, like we're playing a game, always with an answer more interesting than mine. It reminds me of when I interrupted his storytelling in the infirmary two weeks ago. Listening, I find I am just as engrossed as the injured soldiers were by Merlin's soft yet engaging voice.

That is, until Merlin asks, "That woman isn't your mother, is she?"

We're both on our backs at this point, sharing Merlin's thin pallet to avoid the cold ground. The question jars me, pulling me away from the last tale he weaved about the comical character 'Old Man Simmons.'

"She might as well be," I answer shortly, still staring at the tent above me. The memory of Yilgrid's loving smile aches like another wound in my chest.

"She's not," Merlin says firmly, almost smug. "Its obvious. What happened to your actual mother?"

"She died." My voice is clipped with barely-contained anger. I turn my head so he can only see the back of it, hoping that will be the end of the subject.

But Merlin presses, "How?"

I breathe harshly through my nose, facing him again to glare. "By one of your people."

Merlin only scoffs. "One of 'my people?' We're not all from the same country. Or even one race, you know."

"I know," I shrug, still disgruntled.

Merlin looks at the canvas ceiling, continuing in a quieter voice, "My mum said its like having red hair - whole families can get it, or just one child out of nowhere. And that's just regarding those _born_ with the tendency."

I shake my head. "Maybe so, but there's something there that connects you all. You haven't experienced it yet. But when you spend more time with the other recruits, you'll see. I saw it happen for Morgana before my father started keeping her closer."

It was in the time after her father's death and Morgana's subsequent magical outburst, not long after Lord Uther to his council's surprise had claimed her himself. No one really knew why. Morgana was treated as any other recruit at first; just as lowly, just as worthless. After being initially taught by Muirden she was given sentry duties and began joining the recruits of the Inner Circle in daily training. Almost immediately Morgana was welcomed in as one of them despite her previous status, especially by two recruits.

Alvarr and Enmyria. I still remember their names, though I didn't know them at the time. I had been watching Morgana from afar just to keep an eye on her, and Yilgrid had turned a blind eye to my frequent visits out at the sentry posts, enabling the habit. But I never spoke to Morgana - just watched as she watched, or as she trained and was fawned over by those older two. They had to have been past their twentieth year, and she was only in her twelfth. Perhaps they meant to protect her.

The first and last time I heard their names it came from my father's lips, as he sentenced them to death. Alvarr swore up and down that Morgana had no part in the burning of two sentry posts and slaughter of three soldiers, but after having him and Enmyria executed Lord Uther punished Morgana through their bond regardless. It was that night, hours later, that I found my old friend shivering pitifully where she'd been left chained to a pole. I brought her water.

Someone must have seen. My father was informed and, catching me in the act of covering her shoulders with a blanket, told me to watch as she writhed in agony once more. Sir Foehart held the sides of my shoulders, the only reason I didn't collapse when my shaky knees gave out on me.

But through her tears that spark of defiance never left her eye. It emerged thanks to her friends, and has never gone out since.

"That's probably why he started keeping her closer. Its easy to be united against a common enemy," Merlin argues, interrupting my recount.

I blink, re-centering myself in the present. Then I remember his latest question, and proceed with my own: "Well, what about your mother?"

Merlin frowns, sitting up. "What about her?" he asks.

"Does she have your abilities?"

"Why? Hoping to recruit her as well?" Merlin scowls, leaning forward to cross his arms. But the grimace doesn't mask the pang of instinctual fear that echoes from him into my head. "You'd be disappointed to hear she doesn't have a single ounce of magic in her."

"No . . . I'm glad," I tell him, sitting up myself. Its easier to catch his unwilling gaze. "Let's be done with questions now."

"One more," Merlin says after a moment, expression unreadable. I sigh, nodding for him to continue. "What do you remember about us getting back here? After you pulled me out of the water?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "Not much, really. You got better, and then I felt really drowsy. I fell asleep, I think, had some strange dreams. That's all." Merlin nods. His emotions seem as schooled as his face, revealing nothing to me. "Why do you ask?"

"You weren't close to dying," he replies simply. It doesn't really answer the question. I frown for a moment, opening my mouth to ask him what he means. But Merlin says in a tone leaving no room for argument, "We should get some rest, I think."

I nod, getting up to cross over to my own bed. Its warmer than his, off the ground with thicker furs. But my body feels restless, uncomfortable no matter which way I twist. When I do finally manage to get some rest I have more strange, spiraling dreams: the sound of Merlin scared and shouting, the ground-rumbling bass of a voice, and especially the almost-sensation of fate's breath blowing against my face.

I shiver awake from it, another cold day waiting.

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading and for your patience! I'm hoping to update more frequently once this current week is over. Thank you for all your well-wishes regarding my sister's wedding, it'll be this Saturday and I'm so excited for her! My last final exam is this Tuesday as well, which I'll admit to being almost equally excited about ;)**

 **catherine10: Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'm also happy Arthur's at a point where he wouldn't want to, its definitely taken him long enough to get there. I hope you enjoyed this update, thanks for reviewing!**

 **Just A Reviewer: Yay I'm glad you like Morgana! In general she's a favorite of mine :) In this update you also get a bit more background about her as well, though not too much yet. Regarding Nimueh, she actually doesn't have a clue about the term 'Emrys,' as its a druidic name for Merlin in canon and in this fic almost like a 'soul' name on top of that. So probably only a druid would recognize it or know it, if Arthur ever spoke it out loud. Gaius is on a side, you'll find out which!...or what shade of gray he falls under, haha. And thank you for your confidence about Recruit's finale! I personally had a great time writing it, so I'm hopeful everyone will enjoy reading it. THANK YOU for your awesome encouragement as well, I really don't deserve you. I've managed to survive so far, so it is probably in part thanks to your faith in me :')**

 **Guest: ...I think this was TN Sarah...but I could be wrong...so just in case it wasn't, thank you anon! I appreciate the luck, it definitely hasn't gone to waste ;) Hope you enjoyed this update!**


	34. Deathly

**34\. Deathly**

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Summary: _"There will be dozens of Camelot knights attacking you at once, some with swords and some with their powers. Dragons raining fire down from the sky, flying low to snap your bones between their teeth."_

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The weather is just warm enough for the clouds to pour rain down on the forest, melting the gray snow as it falls and collecting into a puddle from where it slides off the tent's canvas. I wake up from the sound of it beating above our heads, the morning sun lost in the gloom.

We might have slept in, after such a late night, but I can't help feeling relieved. We wouldn't have been able to train anyway. Today will be an uneventful one, with luck, and after weeks of training and planning a welcome one.

"Merlin?" I cross over to his sleeping form once I've dressed, avoiding the puddle of water, and nudge at the boy's back with my shoe.

He grunts, curling in on himself. His make-shift bed is soaked.

"Merlin, you're sleeping in a puddle," I inform him, and my breath still makes clouds in the icy air. "Get up, we should have been awake for hours."

He groans, rolling over and peering sleepy eyes up at me. "How do you know?"

I shrug, smirking. "I can tell. I know without the sun having to tell me that its been three hours since dawn. You obviously lack that sense, among others."

Merlin glares. "Just didn't get enough sleep, is all," he retorts, sitting up, then all at once freezes as his eyes move past me.

"Training continues, rain or shine."

I whip around to face the voice I immediately recognize as Nimueh's, who stands nonchalantly in the middle of our small tent as if she's been here all along. The shock that comes is not from her mere presence, however; it is more the expression on her face.

Pleased. Happy. Practically glowing, as if Merlin or I have just exceeded her greatest dreams. "You're training us again?" I ask. Her smile widens impossibly further.

"Indeed. Today the spies tracking the man Kanen have returned. A meeting will be held today for further action—but it has been determined that until Lord Uther is certain the threat against you has been dissolved, you will stay here and train as if you were at the front lines." Her voice gets slower and more ominous somehow by the end, as if to imply something. "Which, as one who leads the recruits during each of his lord's campaigns, I can tell you will not wait for the rain to stop pouring."

We're still to train then. I frown at her, nonplussed by Merlin's warning "Arthur . . ." behind me, just before Nimueh's smile twists. Her eyes flash gold, and a ball of fire suddenly shoots from her raised hand.

It explodes in front of my eyes, a few sparks singing the fur of my coat, just before the fire would have reached me. A hand quickly wrenches me back, Merlin's, who then faces Nimueh with eyes fading back to blue. She stands listening just for a moment as he exclaims, "You could have killed him!" before lashing out again, this time with a single foreign word and a motion of her hand. Her eyes flash and a chain appears out of nowhere, coiling around Merlin like a snake.

He struggles and twists, falling to the ground as I run to grab his hands, but with a single wave she throws me back. "The claim will always grant you power in times your guardian faces mortal peril," Nimueh says, circling Merlin as he struggles and the chains glow, seemingly getting tighter. I move to reach him again and she mutters a few quick words, eyes glowing as I feel my body freeze.

"But our enemies understand that better than you do," the sorceress continues, smirking. "Their knights will strike quick, pick you off one at a time." She takes a hold of my collar and drags my limp body so I'm in full view of Merlin, who looks more fearful by her words than our current predicament.

"They come when we least expect. They attack with all that we have; magic, metal and flame. And sic their beasts on you to roast first, usually," she nods at Merlin, unsheathing a dagger from her belt. He flinches as the woman grabs me by my hair and motions the blade as if against my throat. "Or slaughter our guardians so quickly there is no time to save them. To save ourselves."

All at once control over my limbs returns to me, the coiled chain around Merlin unraveling and dissolving back into the air. I shudder out of her grip, scrambling back to my feet. It's the first time magic has been used against me since Merlin wounded Sir Foehart and I.

But in battle with Camelot, magic will be fought with magic.

"What should I do?" Merlin asks, eyes trained on her with desperation.

"You will need more help," Nimueh replies. She picks up the bag, undoing its strings to pull out whatever lies in its misshapen shape.

Merlin and I both blink as a dead pheasant falls to the ground at our feet.

"That's our help?" I raise an eyebrow at Nimueh, who doesn't spare a glance at me.

"Your guardian must aliesan you this power before every battle," she says. "You, Merlin, in time should be able to resurrect the bodies of those you've already slain in the midst of battle, and use them against Arthur's enemies. But for now, we'll start with this fowl."

Merlin's apprehension quickly morphs into revulsion. "That can't be the answer."

Nimueh shakes her head, answering, "It is the only way to ensure your guardian's protection when you cannot save him in time."

"But if I have my magic I could save him in time. I could have stopped you, easily!" Merlin argues.

NImueh's mouth seems frozen in its smile as she answers, "And even if that was true, you will not face one enemy alone on the front lines. There will be dozens of Camelot knights attacking you at once, some with swords and some with their powers. Dragons raining fire down from the sky, flying low to snap your bones between their teeth."

She speaks with such intensity I can almost imagine the scene myself: Merlin and I, perhaps a bit older, back to back as a swarm of both dragons and men crowd us. Intent to destroy the vision Morgana described, of a peaceful kingdom. A round table, a blessed sword, and a beloved king.

"But . . . but then what happens, how does it work?" Merlin says, and a pang of his despair echoes inside me. "Will they just fight on our side, just like that, then?"

"The soldiers will be dead, so it won't matter." Nimueh says it with force, but there's a quiver in her voice.

It takes me a second longer than Merlin to realize the connection, horror written all over his face. "I just force them anyway, then. Take away _their_ will. How could you expect any of us to . . . ?"

Finally her smile disappears, frozen so long it looked more like an open wound on her face. Its replaced with an ugly grimace as she yells in a shrill voice, eyes almost glowing, "It does not matter if it's a horrid, sickening thing to do! It _never_ will!"

Her vivid blue eyes bulge, wide with such a crazed intensity Merlin swallows and argues no more.

Nimueh's originally pleasant mood never returns, staying short and clipped in words even when the pheasant's wing twitches. By the end of the training session the pheasant is moving around quite convincingly alive; Merlin's face a bit green as he directs it with an outstretched hand.

"In battle you will be too distracted, puppet-ing it like that," Nimueh snaps, and I can see Merlin's jaw visibly tighten.

"We are not in battle yet," I say before he can answer, lowering Merlin's hand to make the flopping corpse still. "Not for years, perhaps."

Nimueh sighs, to my surprise, closing her eyes. "You may not be so lucky."

My brow furrows as I stare at her, wary of the implications. "And which would you rather, for us?"

Her eyes snap open. "What are you asking, little lordling?" Something flickers on her face, but its hard to make out what. I make a guess.

"I'm asking, recruit, what would you choose for Merlin and I? What do you see in our futures that makes you so afraid?"

I've guessed right.

Nimueh's eyes widen, face blanching even as it twists into another scowl. Merlin glances at me in question, not understanding where I'm going with this. I'm not sure myself except that I'm close to something. I can't back out now.

"Well? Why don't you want us on the front lines?"

"There are many futures, nothing is set in stone," she answers quickly, eyes flicking around the room rapidly as if to find an exit. "Even with the shard of Neahtid events remain unclear. Outcomes are relative. Time is malleable, the gods still—"

"You're going to die," Merlin says, out of nowhere. I turn to him in surprise, though his eyes are not misty or far-seeing like he's truly seen it. It's just another guess. By Nimueh's intake of breath, a correct one.

Our presence on the front lines could somehow cause her death.

She neither confirms or denies it. What comes out of her mouth is in that strange tongue, eyes flaring as a small burst of wind coils and wraps around her. In barely more than a second Nimueh is gone.

"What do you think it means?" I ask Merlin after a minute of silence. The rain must have stopped in the time past without us realizing it.

His shoulders deflate, and Merlin looks at me with tired eyes. "That I was right." He nudges the dead pheasant with the toe of his boot, murmuring, "About both things. She's afraid for herself, because all she can do is try to keep herself alive."

I nod. I still don't hold Nimueh blameless from the wretched effects of her claim, but it would be ignorant to think she wanted this—what's happened to her. What they've all been reduced to.

"You didn't know, the first time," I realize aloud, however, remembering when Yilgrid threw the dagger. It was just after the claiming ceremony had been completed, before Merlin knew a thing about what it all meant. That his life is literally bound to mine. "You didn't know, you just pulled me out of the way."

"I . . ." Merlin looks lost, either for words or explanation. Something in his expression looks exceptionally young—a reminder of the face that hesitated only a moment before helping the woman in the cart. I've forgotten till this moment what age I initially assumed him to be: no more than twelve years.

Twelve years might as well be the past twelve days, for how much has happened.

Merlin sits down at the edge of my bed, bridging his fingers. "I don't know. I guess, it was instinct. I knew if I used my magic I could knock you down in time. And, you were the only one, the person I thought might have . . . _goodness,_ even a drop of it, in them." Merlin looks up from his hands, gives me a half-smile. "I couldn't lose that hope. I couldn't lose you."

"And then I immediately said I hated you," I sigh, sitting next to him.

"And I said you may as well have killed me, saving me like you did," Merlin shrugs, still smiling softly.

"And now?" I ask, bumping his shoulder with mine.

Merlin's face quickly sobers. "Now I worry about a lot of things besides myself. Like how to tame a dragon—or unite people who only know how to survive. Or split a person in half and still keep them whole."

I open my mouth to ask what he means just as Leon's voice comes from outside. "Arthur, let me in, hurry!"

Merlin jumps up from my bed as I go to open the tent door, clasping hands behind him and bowing his head slightly. The second Leon is through, hair damp and curling, he tells us, "There's dragons. Dragons have been spotted."

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 **A/N: I was hoping to get this update to you a bit sooner, but at least my sister's wedding is over! I'm living at home now, and still need to unpack, but it has really been so long since you last got a chapter. For that reason I'm foregoing answering the reviews from last chapter for the sake of time - but I really truly appreciate them, I hope you who wrote them know.**

 **Dragons! What did I tell you? They're not just myth or a Camelot scare-tactic! I hope everyone who's reading has enjoyed this chapter. I wanted to make mention also that 'Recruit' has gotten a huge, positive response, one I didn't expect. Its surpassed my other fics in practically every area! If you are enjoying reading up to this point and have not yet, please consider favorite-ing the story :)**


	35. Close to Home

**35\. Close to Home**

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Summary: _Absolute horror is written across Merlin's paling features where he stands opposite me, staring after Leon._

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Dragons. _Here?_ is the unspoken question, though my mind is already running past it towards further, more horrifying possibilities. Will we be ordered to run and seek safety, like my father ordered when I was only nine years? Will we be compelled to fight, Merlin and I? Will the beasts try to gobble up every last recruit?

From my frightened expression and Merlin's shocked one, Leon must realize every thought running through my head like a hunter chasing prey. "No, not here, not yet anyway," he mends quickly with a reassuring grin, pulling down the sodden hood of his dark red cape.

 _Not here._ Not in the Inner Circle, at least, or the Outer Circle or maybe nowhere near the camp at all. Merlin visibly deflates, and I huff in annoyance to mask my gusting sigh of relief.

"The spies Lord Uther sent returned," Leon explains, shaking his hair out like a dog.

"Did they lose any men?" I ask, recovered. I feel a little light-headed as my heart stutters back to a normal pace.

"No, Sir Rogeth says the beasts just flew over them. Heading south. They thought the camp would already have been ashes by then, but they arrived this morning, so the dragons must have just flown over us in the night. Unless they mean to circle back . . ."

"Get an idea of the terrain, perhaps, and numbers," Merlin says, cutting in boldly despite Leon's presence.

The squire merely stares at him for a moment. "Are dragons that smart?"

"Well, they can talk, right?" Merlin shrugs, and Leon's eyes flicker to me with uncertainty.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, as most discussion on dragons here consists of where to aim a spear and how to avoid being torched alive. Their intellectual ability is likely less obvious in the midst of battle.

"Well, that's not all the news they bring," Leon says, looking between us hesitantly. "Based on Sir Rogeth's report, Lord Uther has decided to lead a score of knights to inspect the border of Essetia. My father is among them—as am I."

My eyes widen in shock. "But surely with the possibility of dragons in that area—"

"Arthur, they found the man called Kanen," Leon interrupts with finality in his tone. My mouth clicks shut. "It may have been harder to track down a single man months ago, but he's made a name for himself during the harvest."

"Having his men attack travelers?" Merlin inquires, glancing at me.

"Threatening towns," Leon explains. "He used to just be a raider, according to many the knights spoke with. But he's now claiming the villages as his own, getting closer and closer to Camelot's old border and Lord Uther's dominion. Sir Rogeth says its likely he'll spread further by spring."

"But if the dragons went south, you might not only be facing raiders," I say, shaking my head.

"I think your father hopes to hear news of them as well—if the beasts are still close by or not. Camelot could still attack in the winter. Though I doubt the mad king would let just three of them stay close to our camp for long if they had no intent to attack with larger forces." Leon claps a hand on my shoulder, grinning in a way that's supposed to reassure. "It'll be alright, I'm sure. I just came so you would know before I left. We depart today, as soon as all preparations can be finished. About half a legion of soldiers will follow close behind."

With that he makes to leave, stopping only when I say, "Then where is your destination?"

Leon turns back to say, "Lord Uther wants to rid the towns of Kanen's rule and claim them for his own." I nod without surprise, waiting. "We're headed right along the border where Kanen has been staying, to a village called Ealdor."

It doesn't sound familiar, though I suppose there are villages in Essetia too small and numerous to be aware of. I watch as Leon leaves the tent with a relieved feeling that we are safe, for now, only to turn and see the expression on Merlin's face. Absolute horror is written across his paling features where he stands opposite me, staring after Leon. He still manages a nod as I motion my hand to leave the tent as well—but of course stares at me blankly when I stand to do just that.

"Come _on_ ," I groan, grabbing his wrist and towing him out of there. Something is wrong and if I don't squeeze it out of Merlin now I never will. In order to do so, however, there simply can't be the chance of listening ears outside a tent. Merlin stumbles behind me, not even fighting my grip as I pull him along.

I don't let go till we're in a quiet place. The currently dripping grove of trees where Nimueh's training usually commences, actually, and therefore a place to be avoided for most. Merlin rubs his wrist, an action I almost roll my eyes at, but manage to ignore as I lock eyes with him and demand:

"What is it?"

His former expression mutes somewhat.

"Sorry?"

I sigh impatiently. "Don't play dumb with me," I warn, pointing a finger at him that Merlin studies, unimpressed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's the first thing someone says when they _do_ know! I saw your face, Merlin." Skin ashy and pale, lips leaked of color and eyes haunted. His reaction to Leon's last words could have been caused by many things, though I have little clue of which. But something in my gut tells me this is is important; or maybe in the surging amount of his _fear_ echoing inside me.

He looks down, trying to keep his next expression hidden perhaps, so I put a firm hand on his shoulder, finally asking, "Where is Ealdor?"

Merlin's brows pull together, eyes raised to look at me in speculation like he's the disbelieving one now. " _Where._ Is. _Ealdor_?"

"Yes, that's what I just said!"

He pulls his shoulder roughly from my grip, suddenly looking affronted. " _Where_ is Ealdor!" he repeats, much louder and ignoring my look of warning. Merlin shouldn't be drawing attention to himself. Ever, really. " _Where is Ealdor._ Oh, sorry, must have presumed you'd have the decency to know even the _name_ of the village you indisputably kidnapped me from!" He laughs harshly, throwing his hands up at my dumbfounded expression.

"That—the village?" I swallow, suddenly understanding. "Your village . . . is Ealdor?" Merlin sighs harshly, nodding.

"But . . . if you thought I already knew where it was, what aren't you telling me?" I question. "There is something—are you afraid for your mum? I don't think Kanen—"

"You don't know anything about him," Merlin interjects in distress, huffing a frustrated breath.

I raise a brow. "And you do?"

I've caught him at that, and he looks resigned to an explanation, sighing and dragging a hand across his face before nodding. "Better than anyone else here at least," he says, jaw working. "He's been a plague on our town and many others under Cenred's rule since before I can remember."

I nod, dimly recalling some mention of raiders when Sir Foehart spoke with the peasants in the town. "And he's the one that sent those men to attack us, for whatever reason. Unless . . . is there anything you know that could help?"

Merlin's eyes widen again. "No. He always seemed a – an unstoppable force, my whole life. The worst of the worst. He comes to villages twice a year regularly, in the Spring to demonstrate his power over them and then in the Autumn to collect his due. Ealdor was just like the others in that respect, up until a few years ago. He's gradually started spending more and more time in our village in between, leaving everyone on edge." He raises his hands helplessly, concluding, "But none of that knowledge is helpful. It's just—strange, is all, that he's in Ealdor even in the winter now."

I nod, fitting this in with Merlin's earlier reaction. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume he found the news more horrifying than "strange," however, and I know there's still something he hasn't said yet concerning Kanen.

"We must report this to Lord Uther," I say instead, and it has the desired effect: Merlin freezes, grabbing my shoulder with a slightly annoyed but mostly frightened expression. I feel uneasiness rolling off him in waves.

"No, Arthur. Let's not yet." He glances around us, at the oblivious, ever-moving life of Camp surrounding the small training pavilion. I roll my eyes, shrugging off his hand.

"Fine, but only if you tell me what you're not saying." Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but I continue with, "And don't deny it. I know you too well. I can . . . feel you, sometimes, what you're feeling." I can tell I've surprised him with my words almost as much as myself, admitting this out loud, but I press forward regardless. "And you can feel the same from me, I _know_ it."

Merlin worries at his lip for a moment, eyes not meeting my gaze.

" _Mer_ lin."

He groans out a sigh, glaring at me. "It's not about Kanen!" he shouts. I immediately grab him by the sleeve and drag him behind a tree, better out of sight.

"You idiot!" I hiss, wondering who's most likely to come investigate.

Merlin shrugs off my hand, angry now. "I'm worried about my mother," he says.

I sigh. "Yes, Merlin, I understand that—"

"How could you? What would you know about a mother? _Nothing,_ " he scoffs, and my mouth opens and closes without a sound, the harsh words cutting like a knife. "And not just her—imagine it, an entire patrol of soldiers waltzing into my village, waging battle in the midst of poor families and their homes—"

Finally I find my tongue. "But don't you see!" I manage to interrupt him, grabbing his shoulders and shaking them. "Then you won't have to worry about her, she'll be safe under our protection. The whole village will be."

His expression loses color so quickly I'm surprised there ever was any. "Safe?" he repeats, voice choked, as if I've insulted him. I let go of his shoulders. "You expect me to think she'd be _safe_. Under the control of Uther Pendragon, the man I'd rather see dead than a league closer to her?"

"You expect you can speak such treasonous words of your lord and commander without consequence?"

It's not me. I turn around as Merlin's gaze quickly flickers over my shoulder, eyes widening. Mine do the same as I take in the last person I expected to see: Yilgrid, her expression pinched and unreadable, dead-looking eyes fastened onto Merlin.

So someone had come to inspect Merlin's outburst.

"He's worried, has been ever since the attack," I find myself saying, stumbling over words in my haste. "And—and his mother. His mother has been living under the rule of the man my father suspects orchestrated the attack in our travels."

Her expression never once flickers. "You must go to his lordship about this." With that Yilgrid sharply turns around to leave, stiffening as I touch her shoulder.

"Yilgrid, wait," I say, ignoring the nausea that's growing in my stomach at how lowly and weak I sound, pleading for mercy. Or at how low I can feel myself ready to go, to obtain mercy for Merlin.

She turns her head ever-so-slightly, so only the corner of her eye is visible, and it's then I see in Yilgrid's gaze none of the kind, loving girl I grew up with. In replace of that is only bitter, cold hatred.

"Will you comply, or shall I fetch Lord Uther myself?" she asks sharply, and I swallow.

Merlin's eyes are on the ground when I look back at him, my mind scrambling to discern which would be the kinder course of fate. "Come, recruit," I hear myself say, and I wonder distantly if I've taken the easier path for myself, not for him.

He follows, regardless.

* * *

 **A/N: So sorry for the dragon tease, although I still promise Arthur will interact with them before Recruit is over! A few people have asked how long before this part of the story ends (there will be 1 or two more parts, skipping forward in time)—well, in answer, I was planning on 50 chapters, but with how I've at times separated a lot larger sections than I planned to it might be about 45 at this point. We shall see!**

 **I'm all moved in but I also started a new job this past week, so my updates might still be a bit irregular. Bear with me!**

 **And last, a WARNING: The next update is going to be rather horrible. If you'd rather know specifics just ask, I'd be glad to inform!**

 **catherine10: Well, there was a lot of necromancy in the bbc show so I figured it would make sense :) THANK YOU, I promise I will keep updating! It would be a crime not to because I would have no way to talk to you, lol.**

 **Fairygoatmother: THANK YOU! ;)**

 **Just A Reviewer: They went so so, not too bad but not too great. I'm just glad its over! DRAGONS INDEED! Though not in this chapter, PSYCH. Haha. This story is kind of a monster, its definitely not over. I hope you enjoy/enjoyed your reread, wow that's seriously a compliment to me that you'd want to. Hopefully its more cohesive than my last big fic, haha, that one was all over the place. Thanks for dropping in :D**


	36. Infraction

**36\. Infraction**

* * *

Summary: _I turn back to Merlin, and whatever expression currently occupies my face seems to warn him. He quickly gets to his knees, bracing his arms in front of him._

* * *

When we reach the Council Tent it appears the meeting just recently adjourned, where the new mission to Ealdor must have been debriefed. My father is sipping from a goblet with a smile as he stands among a group of conversing men, all seemingly excited by what they discuss.

Its strange. I expected him to be more somber after news of dragons so close to camp, but I've never seen his face more smug.

"My lord," Yilgrid interrupts, and the group parts enough to allow her entrance. I stay back, just outside the tent with Merlin behind me. "My lord, I have to report an infraction of disrespect and mutiny, which I witnessed being made by the recruit under Arthur."

His steel eyes quickly flicker to me, smile fading, and the councilmen back up to give him view. "And why does this soldier not issue such a report himself?" he asks, with feigned nonchalance.

I feel acid boil inside my stomach, almost making it up my throat. "I did not find it weighty enough for your attention, my lord," I manage to intone respectfully, stepping forward into the tent and briefly bowing my head. I know his gaze, though half-lidded, is a calculating one as he assesses my response.

"His recruit blatantly undermined his authority and made implications about you, my lord, in spite of you," Yilgrid adds, and for the first time something alive appears in her eyes. I barely repress my flinch as I recognize it: hunger.

My father's eyes travel, past her standing close in front of him to me, and finally to Merlin behind me. I don't dare look myself, chin stiff and jutted in front of me to try to keep Lord Uther's attention. The warlord slowly walks behind the long table, sitting at the head with his back ever-so-slightly slouched. "And the soldier has yet to issue punishment then, I presume?"

She shakes her head viciously.

"I was not given time to," I defend quickly, stepping forward again. "I would have, had Yilgrid given me the chance before demanding I report it."

He stands abruptly, surprising me into taking a step back. "Any incident, involving a recruit no less, that concerns the threat of mutiny or any form of rebellion must be explicitly reported to myself. You know this, soldier." I open my mouth briefly, and close it. He stands sternly, lips pursed tight as I bow my head and nod. "Good." He motions to Merlin with the slightest jut of his chin. "Now, issue punishment."

"Father—"

Do not address me so," he thunders over me, eyes stormy. A painful, sinking feeling drops into my gut: loss. "In any situation of this nature I am your lord and commander. What has come over you? Shall I have Nimueh punish it instead?"

I grit my teeth, shaking my head. "No, of course not, my lord."

He raises an eyebrow. "Get on with it then."

I've never actually 'gotten on with it,' so to speak. I haven't done it since Nimueh taught me the act in theory, when I finally managed to dole out a single lash on Merlin. He'd been bracing himself for it, of course, and I was successful enough at unleashing the power of the claim that Nimueh left satisfied.

But that doesn't mean whatever my father orders her to inflict upon Merlin would be any better. I'd guess based on personal experience that it would be much, much, _much_ worse.

I turn back to Merlin, and whatever expression currently occupies my face seems to warn him. There is no time for _I'm sorry_ and _This is my fault_ , regardless of how my mind runs through such feelings in looping succession. He quickly gets to his knees, bracing his arms in front of him. How Nimueh had instructed him to be for the punishment. I can remember the heavy eye contact she kept with Merlin when saying it, however, and the pleased curl of her lips when he endured my one strike with silence.

I am not sure silence will yield the same satisfaction from his current audience. There's no way to warn him of such, however, no way to say anything else before I'm expected to proceed.

I slot my eyes closed. Feeling around me—the still-dripping forest, the frosty, wet wind blowing into the open tent, and Merlin's shallow breaths as they tremor through his back—I can almost ignore the reality of what I must do. I can pretend I am in that strange dream again, with its lulling deep voice and the gusting breeze that seemed to at once refresh and kindle my soul.

But my eyes must open.

Merlin is still in position, crouched with his back curved and vulnerable in front of me. Waiting. As is my father, out of eyesight but imposing in his presence behind me.

So I proceed. I search inside myself, for that burning, acidic concoction that usually only releases at the chant of aliesan. It's a quick thing to find now, with an irritated burn straight over my heart that centers it for me. I breathe in and out once, focusing, forcing the power out from my chest down my arms, building up in my fingertips.

The magic has nowhere to go. Instead it writhes, squirms, twists, and then lashes out like a whip. I feel Merlin's fear echo my own, and he must sense the build as well. But only I feel the eyes that burn into my back, branding me with their scrutiny. The eyes of Lord Uther.

As I let the claim release the only way it can, the single thing echoing my fear now is blinding, all-encompassing pain. Merlin writhes at my feet, silent like the stubborn ass he's incapable of not being, and my father orders coldly, "Keep going. Wait until he screams."

I immediately begin to silently plead at Merlin to start screaming soon, even if he could continue to stand it in silence. But as the claim twists his magic against him Merlin just silently shakes. It takes an excruciatingly long minute before the boy finally starts whimpering, and then yelping, and then crying out. I immediately force the flare of magic back down inside. The sensation makes my head rush, and I stagger to keep my balance.

Meanwhile Merlin's arms buckle, body slumping and then un-moving. The feeling of pain cuts off, followed by . . . nothing. I stare down at him, gasping, sweat pouring down my back though I've only felt the echo of what he endured. It feels like hours go by as I stand there, my vision tunneling on Merlin's motionless person at my feet. The wreckage of my actions.

If I had not selfishly gone and joined the village boys in that silly game of ball, would Merlin still be lying here in front of me?

A flicker of movement finally helps me break my gaze, and a second later I recognize it as Yilgrid walking past us, head bowed. On instinct she seems to sense my gaze and looks up for a brief moment. I blink in bafflement at the sight of eyes that, once deadened, now stream as they lock with mine, face shiny with wet tracks of what must be tears. Upon catching my eye she quickly turns away.

I have no time to process what it means. Instead I hear my father's voice, suddenly so close in my ear, further catching me off guard with the words: " _Well done_ , soldier."

He says it so softly, right behind me, sending shudders down my scalp. My stomach takes a sickening twist, churning at the realization I once had longed for such words. I don't loosen a single muscle until his footsteps fade—only then can I stumble to Merlin, hands out to check for injuries, for breathing, for life.

He seems alive. Breathing, no blood anywhere, if that means anything.

But its not enough. He looks like the life has been drained from him. For a panicked moment I wonder if that's exactly what's happened, until I force myself to remember how countless other sorcerers have recovered from much worse punishment. _Merlin will be fine. Merlin will live_. Perhaps that is not truly my worry.

Hatred, not for Merlin or for Uther or for Yilgrid or even for fate but for myself, swallows me so entirely my body shakes with it. Because the truth is, _Merlin will hate me._ My stomach churns with it, my head fogs over all sight or sound in the wake of it.

My old mantra returns with new resolve: I _can't_ do this anymore.

* * *

 **A/N: I return after a long hiatus! Only to bring you the lowest point, just before the upward climb of 'Recruit' and its end, of course. So sorry for the long wait, everyone, it totally sucks because even _I_ forgot what last happened. Lol. I love you all, please forgive me! Real life has a tendency to get in my way ;)**

 **catherine10: Honest, I think I already have made that a habit in my writing! Lol, my last fic RIVULET literally didn't explain ANYTHING until the last few chapters. I'm tempted to tag practically everything I post here with 'Suspense' even when its a cheesy Mergana three-shot. Thanks though, I'm glad you find it an attribute not an annoyance!**


	37. Infirmary

**37\. Infirmary**

* * *

Summary: I hear the signature chortling of Merlin himself, Gaius laughing along as well, and think to immediately plow my way through to see him alive and well. Until I remember I'm the one who put him there.

* * *

"My lord, have you seen . . . oh my . . . oh Gods, is he, my lord? Is he . . . ?"

I hear the steadily higher-pitched voice distantly as it squeaks out words, the world a giant smear around me as I listen. It sounds like the serf Gwen. I can't figure out the question, though the answer seems rather important.

Some time later an arm pulls me to my feet, wraps my own arm around a sturdy pair of shoulders before leading me somewhere, a tent I think. I'm sat down and a face peers close into mine. Scrutinizing something, I suppose.

"He's got battle shock," the soft, emotionless voice says, and an older voice somewhere out of my blurry vision replies, "Give him a strong tincture—peppermint, make sure to include."

The face moves away. In its place I see along the opposite tent wall a boy is resting in a bed, and an old man stares down at him in worry. It's not till I identify the boy as Merlin that everything else comes crashing back.

Gwen, seeing us initially and running for help. Leon and another squire, taking Merlin and myself to the infirmary tent. Edwin, and now Gaius, here with us both.

I stand, possibly too abruptly for my spinning head, and demand, "Tell me Gaius. _Did I kill him._ "

He jumps, turning back to me with both imperious eyebrows raised. "Gods save me, you scared me my lord," he sighs, putting a hand to his heart. And then his eyes move back to Merlin on the bed. "He's fine, Arthur. Just fine. Only—worn out, if you understand, magically." He looks back up at me, a strange look on his face. "Are you alright?"

I blink, not understanding. Gaius huffs softly and leaves Merlin's side, hands gently pushing my shoulders down back to the cot. "Deep breaths, my lord," he says, eyes impossibly kind. Its only then I realize how shallow they are, and make an effort to pull in a large lungful of air. It catches in my throat, though, hitching. I try again, searching for strength in the the old man's gaze, but the gentleness in it only makes the hitching worse.

"I hurt him," I admit out loud. The words come out in a gasp, my mind re-envisioning the way Merlin's body began to shake, the sound of his cries, the echo in my mind of all-encompassing pain—

My burning eyes begin to leak. Through the blur I can see Gaius move to sit next to me, and gently he moves my head to rest against his shoulder. I let him. "Its not your fault, Arthur," he says, patting my back. I shake my head vigorously against his shirt, disagreeing. The hitching grows worse, turning into sobbing, and shakes my whole body as I can no longer ignore the growing fear. _All of this_ is my fault.

As if knowing my thoughts, Gaius continues, "Its not your fault, none of this. And Merlin knows that. He's said the same to me."

"If I hadn't—If I hadn't—" I can hardly say around hiccuping, but Gaius doesn't let me continue.

"Someone else would have captured him. Someone else would have been his guardian. You know its true. And even if you could have prevented this, my lord, sometimes . . . there are times we must accept our regrets for what they truly are: a way of mourning." I lift my head from his shoulder, a little confused but mostly angry.

"I don't _pity_ Merlin," I argue.

"No. But you regret the loss of his innocence—and of your own. Just as Yilgrid seeks revenge for Sir Foehart's death, instead of letting herself grieve. Which in turn takes away her capacity for the very thing she thinks she's lost: love." Gaius lets out a bone-weary sigh, one that hangs heavy on his shoulders. "Obsessing with our regrets does likewise; it takes away our ability to change. Either way we can never truly move on, and _accept_ our losses, until we allow ourselves to grieve."

"Does the lordling still require the tincture, sir?" Muirden interrupts, and I hastily wipe all evidence of tears from my face.

"No, thank you Muirden," Gaius replies, and the recruit bows his head shortly.

 _Gaius's_ recruit. I've forgotten that until now, that the old man himself is a guardian. Which could mean either that his advice is well-founded and sincere or I've made yet another detrimental mistake. "So he'll be alright then," I say once Muirden is once again out sight.

Gaius nods. "The first time is always worst. He'll come out of it by nightfall."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, relief pulling at the corner of my mouth. Gaius smiles back.

But my mind flashes back to another memory. "Has my father said anything?" I ask, worried that he would throw Merlin out, insist he was a waste of the physician's time if the boy only needs rest. My blood boils at the thought.

No, I realize then that I simply wouldn't let him.

Gaius shakes his head. "He is busy, I'm sure, as preparations to leave for Ealdor are being finished. They'll be out by noonday, apparently."

"Which is why I've come."

The voice is Leon's, who enters the tent just then, and he meets my gaze with a strained smile. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't you be on your way?" I ask instead of answering.

"I am, though I hoped to see you feeling better before we headed off." He bows his head. I manage a half-smile back, eyes flicking back to Merlin for a moment. Leon notices.

Something softens in his eyes as he steps to me, squeezes my shoulder with a reassuring hand. "It happens all the time, Arthur." He nods at Merlin before locking eyes with me. The words are supposed to be a comfort, I can tell, even if they are the opposite, so I nod back. The gesture seems to satisfy my old friend. He clasps my shoulder once more and says, "I'll see you soon," before leaving the tent.

I spend the remaining hours of the morning doing Merlin's usual tasks: polishing my training armour, sweeping out our living quarters and taking the wash to Gwen. When Gwen sees me her eyes go wide, and before I can process more than the smell of clean laundry and curly hair tickling my nose I feel her flinch her arms back from around my chest.

"I'm so sorry my lord, I don't what I was thinking, I'm sorry, for some reason I just, I don't know," she babbled against the hands on her mouth, staring down at my feet in apology.

I sigh. "Thank you for getting Leon," I say, cutting off any more of her useless apologies, and the serf girl's eyes go round as supper plates. But I can't help but say it; I was of little help to Merlin, out of my mind, when she noticed us and ran for help. "Here's the washing, for Merlin and I."

Of course, that's the part that almost makes her faint in disbelief.

When I return it's to find both Edwin and Gaius hovering near where Merlin rests, and for a heart-dropping second I fear the worst again. Panic sets in that something went wrong—the claim overdid itself, damaged Merlin's head permanently, sucked too much energy from him—until I hear the signature chortling of Merlin himself, Gaius laughing along as well, and think to immediately plow my way through to see him alive and well in the sick cot.

Until I remember I'm the one who put him there.

"A pheasant, I know . . ." he is saying. Awake before noonday, much less nightfall like Gaius assumed.

I quietly slip back out of the infirmary tent, wondering what to do now. The chores are finished. Training with Merlin is out of the question. Seeking out Foehart and Yilgrid for company has not been an option for months, now. Sword practice, perhaps, though it seems a bit tedious on my own.

My legs end up taking me where my mind refuses to stray regardless: to the border of the Inner Circle, ignoring the tell-tale smells of dinner wafting nearby, and heading for the south post.

I wouldn't have made it to see the party leaving for Ealdor, if it wasn't for the commotion happening. Upon nearing I hear shrieks piercing the air, not unlike the ones Merlin cried out earlier this morning, though these seem to be a bit more contained. And then I can see—Uther, standing over a small, crouched figure.

Morgana lifts her head up to him, defiant still it seems, and I can just make out her plea: "My lord. Do not go, please."

"You have said very little to convince me otherwise," my father sniffs, and she grits her teeth. The other knights of the party wait out the exchange nonchalantly.

"I will die, my lord. Please. Do not do this."

She throws her head back, spine arching with another shriek, and then falls to the ground on her face.

"Stay and die here, then. Is that what you wish?" he spits down at her, before marching stormily back to his horse. The party starts on their way again, leaving her in the dust as they salute the watchers of the south post and head through to the Outer Circle.

She crawls off to the side of the path, dress dusty, unaware it seems as I slowly approach. "Morgana," I say, and she lifts her head. I'm surprised to see tears streaming down her cheeks and yet the slightest of smiles gracing her lips. "What is it? What happened?"

"Nothing a remedy of Gaius's won't fix," Morgana shrugs, a bitter smirk tugging at her mouth. I offer a hand up and she takes it without hesitation, accepting as well the hand I put around her waist to help steady her as we walk.

"Where's your shadow?" she asks after a minute, frowning, and I stare at her, uncomprehending.

"Sorry?"

"Your shadow, your recruit, your Merlin, of course," Morgana huffs. "He's always trailing behind you, especially when you're in this do-good mood."

"You'll see him," I say, and nothing else.

"Good." She smiles, and I raise an eyebrow at her. "I'm going to live longer than I was about to a minute ago, Arthur," she defends upon seeing it, "so I'm in a rather kind mood myself. Don't get used to it."

We make it back to the infirmary tent eventually, Morgana heavy-lidded and exhausted—magically, as Gaius puts it again. "Here, lay down my dear," he says, and then mutters quickly under his breath, "the Gods willing there's not any more traumatized children coming here at the rate they have been."

Merlin is laying down with his back to us, asleep again. "What's he doing here?" Morgana asks, drowsy where she now lays as she blinks her eyes over to Merlin.

"There was . . . an accident," I say, the farthest from the truth.

But Morgana's eyes are already shut when I look back at her. Its a surprising sight. Her features are relaxed entirely, now baring much more resemblance to those of the childhood friend who tricked me into all sorts of trouble out of Yilgrid's watchful eye. Proud and dignified in all things, but caring at heart. Her father lead the front line, away for months; her mother disappeared when she was only eight. Through all that she stayed strong, resilient. Until the grief of Sir Gorlois's death finally broke her, corrupted into her first act of magic.

I turn to leave, only to freeze upon seeing Merlin. Wide awake and looking at me, sitting up. His face is expressionless; I have no idea what to make from it. Its not angry, or hateful, or worst of all, defeated. But I can't have been so easily forgiven. "Merlin," I say, taking a step closer, and he watches me move closer without comment. "Merlin I . . . I thought you would still be asleep."

"So did Gaius," he nods. An uncomfortable silence stretches.

Then we both open our mouths to speak at the same time:

"Merlin, I need to—"

"Arthur, I'm sorry—"

We both stop, staring at each other incredulously. "You're sorry?" I scoff, disbelieving. "Merlin, look where you've been all day!"

He rolls his eyes, of all things, and swings his legs off the bed. "When did you get so noble?"

"Nothing I did today was noble."

"Just like any other day then." He hops to his feet, grabbing me by the sleeve and taking us outside the tent. I follow, still slightly shocked, and manage to get the first word in where we stop.

"Merlin," I start, not sure what I'm about to say, only seeing dark bruises under his inquisitive eyes that I bet I put there. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to, but there was—"

"Arthur, shut up," he answers harshly, and my mouth snaps shut. "Don't waste your breath. I know you're sorry." Then Merlin bites his lip, looking down. "I'm—I'm sorry. And don't protest, I am. Earlier, almost all of it, I was so stupid yelling at you like that in broad daylight, and you even tried to stop me. But . . . especially about you not having a mother. I didn't mean it."

I have to shake off the dust from this morning's earlier events to remember. "You were right though, Merlin," I shrug once I have. "I don't."

Real pain flickers in his eyes. "But, Yilgrid . . ."

Ah. Now I understand. "Is obviously not my mother," I assure him, also adding, "and any choices she's made in the past few months aren't your fault. Or mine."

Saying those words I can suddenly testify to the truth of them. For months I've told myself to hate Merlin for it, yet really blamed myself for what he's made Yilgrid become—but it was her choice. She chose hatred for Merlin over love for me.

"I didn't say that," he defends, though I can tell he's as surprised as I am by my words.

I smirk. "You think too loud."

Merlin scoffs, but can't keep back a wry grin himself. "Fine, if you say so. " Then his expression sobers. "Has the party already left?"

I nod, smile fading as well. "I watched them go. Morgana got out of it, whatever pain she paid for it, but my father left anyway without her, so she'll have to follow. He seems very set on this mission."

"That's because he hates Kanen even more than he hates—well, me, for instance," Merlin says matter-of-fact-ly.

I raise an eyebrow. "And how are you so sure of that?"

He puts up two hands in defense. "Don't ask me to compliment your father. I won't."

"I'm not, I'm asking you to explain yourself."

"Fine." Merlin sighs long-sufferingly. "Think about it this way: what reason would he have to hate Kanen?"

I stare at him, uncomprehending. "Because he attacked us?"

Merlin scoffs. "Because he attacked _you_ , of course!"

For a fleeting moment it makes sense, too much, the strange way the warlord acted when I first woke up from my injuries. Then the words he murmured in my ear just hours earlier come to mind, telling me that I had done well in punishing Merlin. Finally receiving his love, after my life was at stake. Finally earning his approval, in the very act of the worst thing I've ever done. It leaves the simple truth: my father loves me, in some way, and perhaps he does want many things for me.

Just all the wrong things.

"That's not important." I shake my head in an attempt to clear it, turning around and heading back toward the infirmary. "You need to get some rest."

He harrumphs, following, and as we enter the tent again says, "I can't, not when Uther is heading towards—"

The scene inside of it dries up the rest of the words in Merlin's mouth.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello again! I hope you've been having a magnificent past few days, I know mine have been pretty great. Arthur and Merlin of course have seen better days, but they're at a point where friendship wins out. Which will be important in the events to come! I really appreciate everyone who's been following along still, started following, been reviewing each update, and just started reviewing. Seriously, you are too kind and sometimes when I feel unmotivated/down I just read some of your comments and they put a big sappy smile on my face XD THANK YOU**

 **catherine10: I'm glad you loved the chapter despite its horrific content, lol, and no of course I knew you were complimenting the story. Sorry if I ever over-explained myself. That's great that you enjoy reading suspense, because I love writing it ;)**


	38. Revelation

**38\. Revelation**

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Summary: " _Morgana?" Merlin asks, taking a tentative step forward. She doesn't respond. He ignores Gaius's warning look and asks again, "Morgana? Morgana, do you remember . . . what you saw?"_

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Firstly, there's a pool of what must be vomit in the middle of the tent, Morgana crouched over it, Muirden holding her hair and Gaius pacing. Then there's the on and off flickering of a glow from her arms, and her chanting, ". . . Blood, blood everywhere, death everywhere, stop, the blood, blood everywhere, death everywhere . . ."

"Gauis!" I cry out in alarm, stepping back, unable to stop myself from staring. Both Gaius and Muirden look up but Morgana still chants and stares ahead, unseeing, or perhaps seeing elsewhere.

". . . blood everywhere, death everywhere, stop, stop the blood . . ."

"Is she dying?" Merlin asks in horror, and Gaius immediately tries herding us out the door.

"Help!" Morgana cries out then, staring in horror, and everyone's attention is immediately back on her. But the second time she addresses it to someone. " _HELP_ , Merlin, _help_!"

Merlin rushes to her side just as the girl collapses, almost in her own puke if not for his timely save. She coughs wetly, eyes rolling, and then her body stills.

"She was having a vision, I would presume," Muirden says calmly, and quickly lifts up Morgana's unconscious form from Merlin's arms, laying her in the nearest cot.

"Then why would she call out Merlin's name?" I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

"Likely a vision _about_ Merlin then," he answers in annoyance, and begins dabbing at Morgana's face with a cloth.

"Do you think so?" Merlin turns to Gaius, who frowns deeply.

"There is no other assumption we can make till she wakes, unfortunately."

It's almost comical as Morgana gasps, eyes shooting open, the next second. We all startle; Gaius immediately kneels at the side of her cot, soothing her as the girl gasps. After a minute her breathing slows and she makes to sit up, crouching over and blinking rapidly. "It's alright, Morgana, you're safe now," he assures, patting her back.

"Morgana?" Merlin asks, taking a tentative step forward. She doesn't respond. He ignores Gaius's warning look and asks again, "Morgana? Morgana, do you remember . . . what you saw?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, grabbing her head and shaking it. "No, no don't remember," she whispers. "Can't tell. He said . . ."

" _Morgana._ " I surprise even myself with the demand, though Morgana finally opens her eyes, meeting my gaze where I stand at the end of the cot. There's at least a little coherency in them this time.

Whatever Uther told her to not tell, I want to hear it.

"Please. You shouted for Merlin to help you; do you remember that?"

Morgana's whole body wracks in a shudder, eyes widening. Then they shoot across the room, landing on each person standing around her bedside and lingering on Merlin.

When she finally makes her way back to looking at me, resolve has replaced confusion. "I remember," she nods, voice hoarse, "though I cannot tell. Uther has forbid me share any vision without his permission."

"But what if it's too late by the time he gets back to Camp?" Merlin protests. "You were calling for _help_ , Morgana."

"Do not ask her to disobey her guardian," Muirden answers without emotion.

Gaius sighs. "I fear it's for the best, regardless. The future is little to be helped, after all, especially if one knows it."

Merlin's shoulders droop, but I've paid the men little attention. For all the time Morgana and I have spent estranged, the years and years before it have taught me to look for the set of her jaw; the resolve in Morgana's eyes is unwavering now as she says, "Perhaps this one can be helped."

Gaius frowns, putting a hand over hers. "But not until Lord Uther—"

"My guardian will be gone for days," she replies, though her eyes immediately move to rest on me. "In his place, it would be best told to his son."

I'm surprised how legitimate the judgment sounds, even knowing with a surety that my father would in no way agree. All eyes turn towards me as Morgana continues, "If you could all leave the room, I will tell him what I can."

Gaius says nothing for a terrifying few seconds, frowning at Morgana with a furrowed brow. Probably thinking it would be better to wait, or to send Morgana and a few knights after the party that left, not an hour ago. She looks back with impressive confidence, however; for that or whatever reason Gaius nods and turns to go without a word, Muirden following him out. Merlin lingers at the door, face both concerned and horribly curious.

"Including you, Merlin," she says, nodding at him. Merlin shoots me a meaningful glance and shuts the tent door behind him.

Then we are alone. Morgana sighs, sitting the rest of the way up. Her face is still so pale, so sickly, and I worry its not only from the mysterious vision but the increasing distance between her and her guardian. Its too early now, of course; little time has passed since my father's departure.

Morgana must know this as well, calm and silent as she pats the bed next to her. I hesitantly move to sit there, unaccustomed to being so close to her piercing gaze. "Are you alright?" I ask, searching her eyes for any concealed pain.

"I saw the outcome just before the mission left," she says quietly, ignoring the question. Her gaze is unwavering. "The result of Lord Uther's attack on Kanen and his men and . . . and his dragons. I saw that I would die, and told him so. Lord Uther refused to stay behind. I saw nothing of his fate, though l hope for his death."

" _Morgana_ ," I say, maybe in admonition, mostly in surprise. "What can you mean by this? Kanen—with dragons? That doesn't make any sense."

She sets her jaw but otherwise continues as if I haven't spoken. "I did not realize how much would change once I convinced Uther to let me stay. Now, instead I see Merlin and you there. I don't know how you got there, but I'm standing in a forest, and Merlin isn't able to save me—not me, but whoever's eyes I was seeing through. Then I turn and I'm in a small room and Uther . . . he breathes his last breath. Five dragons, they light the little village on fire. There is _so much death_ , death everywhere, blood everywhere," at that she grabs my wrist tightly, " _until_ Merlin convinced them to leave."

I gape at her, uncomprehending. "Sorry?"

"The dragons, Arthur!" she hisses, still quiet but much more urgent. "Merlin convinced them to leave. I didn't see how. I don't know how the man in charge of a band of thieves got the beasts to come from Camelot in the first place."

I pull myself away from the intensity of her gaze, staring at the opposite wall for a minute.

My father, dead. The image doesn't come, neither does any feelings with the idea. I move from it quickly, though its almost as hard to imagine Merlin anywhere near a dragon. They'd sooner flatten him underfoot than notice him, judging by what the soldiers have said: taller than trees, some even the height of mountains. What could he do to convince the mindless beasts to stop their killing? "Isn't it best we aren't there then, Merlin and I?" I ask finally, hoping against such a fate. I look back at her when she squeezes my wrist in a bruising grip.

"If you do not go they will _all_ die. Merlin's entire village—"

"But does he die?" I interrupt, grabbing her wrist as well so our arms are interlocked.

Morgana doesn't answer me at first. Her eyes flick across the features of my face, looking for something. I can't tell if she finds it. "I don't know." She shakes her head, and then lifts her mouth in a sad smirk. "I know that I pray for Uther's death, even if it ensures my own."

My stomach twists at that reminder, the thought of Gilli and the claim marks snaking up to his neck, choking him blue . . . Morgana will never suffer that fate, I swear to myself. I will ensure it never does—become the fiercest warrior the four kingdoms have ever seen, win Camelot for her and Merlin, shield them from a fate of shielding their 'betters' till they break. "We will save him, somehow. I promise."

"Never promise that to me," she answers solemnly. There's an acceptance in her eyes that scares me. But then Morgana pulls at my shoulder with her free hand till it touches her own. With our heads resting on each other's shoulders, I feel a warmth I remember from embracing Yilgrid, from hearing Foehart call me 'son.' From making Merlin smile. My throat tightens, and I pull away before it closes entirely.

"And what of this should Merlin know?" I ask, swallowing as I lean back.

Morgana lifts her lips in a small smile. "That he could save lives. I've seen he can do it. But Arthur—we mustn't tell him how. Not for now, at least."

"Alright."

I squeeze her wrist one last time—surprised to feel a sharp shock travel up my arm at the action, though Morgana appears not to notice—before she lets go, nodding towards the door. "The sooner we leave, the better," she says, and swings her feet over the edge of the cot.

"You're coming with us?" I ask, eyebrow raised, and Morgana lifts her mouth again, though it could hardly be called a smile.

"I'd be going anyway. Either with you or escorted by knights, and I'd like to spend my last hours . . . well." Her mouth twists cruelly. "At least as content as possible."

* * *

 **A/N: Bit of a short one, but I thought it best to leave us off here. I should maybe add suicidal thoughts to the list of warnings at the beginning of this fic...darn, every time I say it doesn't get any darker. In my defense, I kind of forgot about this chapter! Its not going to be a theme, I swear!**

 **Thanks everyone for reading, I keep taking forever and you keep being so patient. I don't deserve you, clearly.**

 **catherine10: Yes, and here's more Morgana to add to that! Lol though not a very happy one. Regarding your question I will say yes and no; feel free to be frustrated by that answer. Heehee. Thanks for your review!**


	39. To Deceive

**39\. To Deceive**

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Summary: _That's another person asking me to keep things from Merlin, I realize with growing unease. Its strange, a change from the past few months where there's been so much to hide about Merlin to keep him safe. But perhaps this is another way of doing that._

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Gaius immediately protests upon seeing Morgana exit the tent with me. "Morgana, you can't be up and about already after such an episode. You need rest, child," he says, bustling over to put a supporting arm around her. She crosses her arms.

"Alright," she says, stepping away from his help. "I'll rest once we arrive."

"Arrive where?" Merlin asks, and she smiles.

"We're leaving for Ealdor, the three of us. As soon as possible."

Gaius, Merlin and even Muirden all stare in varying states of shock.

"If you think there's any chance I would let three _children_ , none of you above fourteen years, head out on your own to a battle then you need more medicine than I thought!" Gaius huffs out, quickly motioning as if to herd us all back into the infirmary.

Merlin is the one to shake his head, glancing back at Morgana as he says, "She must have seen something, Gaius."

"We need to go to Ealdor." Morgana nods, giving him a reassuring smile. "The future depends on it."

"The future changes all the time!" Gaius blusters, looking .

"Lives are at stake," I add, stepping forward. "Lord Uther isn't here to act on what Morgana saw. But somebody needs to—for my father's own safety. We need to go to Ealdor."

That seems to do it. Gaius can't stop his eyes from widening, glancing at Morgana in horror before looking back at me. "Even if I let you go . . . you won't be able to slip past the Inner Ring's sentries."

"You could." We all turn in surprise at Muirden, who continues speaking to Gaius, "If the boy could manage the same transportation spell he did before. It wouldn't be as dangerous for them, either."

Merlin's expression lightens, nodding. "I think . . . I think I could do that."

"Then it's settled. No one will hardly notice we're gone!" Morgana says cheerfully. I nod, and without a word needing to be said Merlin and I walk to face each other. I clasp my marked hands tight in his, saying, "Ic alīesan ēow anweald don mīn ferð," and in my mind the words, _Take us where we need to go_.

Merlin's eyes flash gold, spine straightening and sucking in a breath. When I release his hands he blinks a few times, putting a hand to his temple. "It was a lot that time," he explains upon looking up and seeing my expression. "Just all at once, I mean. I'm fine."

"Arthur," Gaius says, pulling my attention away. He stands crossly with his arms folded across his chest. "I need to speak with you a moment." The physician doesn't wait for an answer before turning, and after shrugging to Merlin I follow the old man back into the infirmary.

"Morgana saw us in Ealdor, we can't—" I start, thinking he's about to start arguing again, but Gaius immediately interrupts.

"You may see Merlin's mother, Hunith, while you're there," he starts with. My jaw hinges loose, speechless, though Gaius continues like he doesn't see it. "I knew her. A long while before this horrible mess happened and I wasn't shackled here; a traveling physician."

I've finally managed to find my tongue by then, a thousand questions wanting to run loose. But right now there is little time. "How did you know she was his mother?"

"Merlin spoke of Hunith when he helped heal the soldiers, here," Gaius smiles sadly. "And after that I could immediately see the resemblance." Then he puts a hand on my shoulder, smile gone. "Tell her I will watch out for him, the best I'm able to. Tell her: do _not_ go to Camelot. We have no allies there."

"Gaius, but—what—?" I sputter, more confused than ever.

"She can't go there. Will you tell her for me, Arthur? Without Merlin finding out?" he asks somberly.

That's another person asking me to keep things from Merlin, I realize with growing unease. Its strange, a change from the past few months where there's been so much to hide about Merlin to keep him safe. But perhaps this is another way of doing that.

I take a deep breath, then nod.

"I will."

"Thank you." Then Gaius's face softens, and he pats me on the shoulder with a weathered hand. My throat clenches, tight as he says, "Be safe, both of you."

I again exit the tent; Morgana appears to be murmuring something in Merlin's ear nearby. No doubt information on what she saw, or the little she wants him to know. When they see me Merlin quirks an eyebrow in silent question; I try to make my response flippant, slightly rolling my eyes and shrugging one shoulder. Hopefully warding off questions on what Gaius has told me.

"I just had Gwen go pack some things, just in case," Morgana says when I reach them. "It might be a little while before she's finished. In the meantime, stay in your tent and don't attract attention—if you can manage it for a full day."

I roll my eyes, though Merlin nods quite seriously. "We'll keep to ourselves."

Without Nimueh or Leon to find me for training or my father to worry about, its a relatively quiet afternoon. Merlin still looks exhausted after the ordeal of this morning, though neither of us mentions it for the hour. I send Merlin out for midday dinner, which we share on the floor across from one another.

"Morgana says she saw dragons in Ealdor," Merlin starts out, sitting back from the plate once we've finished.

"Yes, she told me as well." I look at him in expectancy for the coming question, which Merlin recognizes. He sighs.

"Do all dragons live in Camelot?" he asks.

I shrug, inwardly relieved by the question. "Maybe not all. Most do in these lands, from what Foehart told me. He said they live in caverns that go deep under the hill of the citadel, and answer to Camelot's mad king."

"So there might be some that do not," Merlin says.

"I suppose. Why?"

He chews on his lip, thinking hard for a minute. I wait in growing confusion.

"Arthur I . . ." Merlin meets my eyes, looking almost guilty. "I've met a dragon before."

I blink, jaw dropping. Merlin bites his lip again for a second, hesitant. "Well—we both have, in some ways. You were unconscious by then. I thought she was going to kill us! But apparently I'd called to her, somehow, and . . . she gave me knowledge on how to transport us quickly back to camp. With her breath, actually."

 _Merlin's voice screaming in fear from a great distance, the rumbling of a deep voice, and the strange sensation of fate's breath blowing against my frozen face._

It fills in a hole I'd forgotten was there in our story, with all that's happened since. But, "How did you manage 'calling' to a dragon?" I ask, still in disbelief.

"Oh sorry, I was a bit too scared for both of our lives to ask questions," Merlin snaps defensively. He lets out a gust of breath and continues, "She said a lot, about things I needed to do, you needed to do, and you'd given me access to my magic by then, almost _limitless_ , so I did it."

"'She,' it was a ' _she'_?"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "She could speak. She said—well, she wasn't some dumb animal. I don't know if the rest are like that, but she said her name was Aithusa and I'd called to her while I was crying."

I sit back against my cot, taking in the news. Morgana's vision suddenly doesn't seem quite so far-fetched—if Merlin could call out to them in distress and receive help so easily, perhaps he could convince them to stop attacking as well.

But Morgana also said not to mention this part to Merlin so it happens the right way. "Why didn't you tell me?" I ask instead, looking him over with new eyes. Three weeks its been, since our incident with the ruffians and almost freezing to death. He's kept it hidden so well I hadn't even thought to look for the signs.

"It wouldn't do you any good until now, knowing," Merlin says with resolve in his gaze. "Just another thing to keep secret. I doubt your father would want to know you and I can sense each other's feelings, or that you were able to let me use magic without having aliesanned it; consorting with dragons couldn't be any better. Even if it was to save your life."

"And yours," I point out, stomach sinking as I think how I've repaid the debt. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he says, shrugging, but I don't need to use our bond to know there's more to it.

"Are you sure you'll be able to take us to Ealdor so soon? We could wait till the morning, or—"

" _No_ , Arthur. If there's a chance we can stop the fight before it begins, I want to go as soon as possible. Like Morgana said." He runs a hand through his unruly dark hair, looking much more grown up than either of us actually are, before giving me a tired smile. "I think it just might hurt a little bit. Using magic, for the next day or so, after that. I feel . . . _raw_ , inside."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." He shifts, looking down at his hands. "I knew it would happen eventually. Nimueh made sure to drill that knowledge in me. I'm thankful she did."

"I thought if I was careful enough, I could keep you safe," I admit, and the idea sounds rather silly spoken out loud. "A dream doomed for failure."

"You have kept me safe," Merlin argues, eyes so honest it hurts to look into them. "From your father, from the other knights, from myself."

"If I wanted to keep you safe, I would say no to Morgana and force you to stay here," I counter. "And I've considered it. But . . ."

"But it's my home." Merlin smiles again, more regretful than sad this time. "The dragon was right."

I don't get the chance to ask what about. Morgana enters just then, draped in a gray winter cloak. She's holding a large bundle of red cloth, skin even paler in comparison. "Gwen should be coming soon," she nods at us, closing the tent flap behind her.

Merlin takes the bundle from her, frowning down at it in confusion. "What is this for?" he asks.

"I'll explain later. When you take us, Merlin, choose a location a mile or two south of the actual village commons. That way there's little chance of crossing paths with Uther. Then you two can slip into the village by nightfall, gather information on what Kanen has been doing."

"And then?" I ask, arching a brow.

"Then, based off what information you get, we make a plan to stop the bloodshed. Have the villagers leave at an opportune moment—create one, if we need to. And whatever else we can do."

"Save my father," I say. Morgana's mouth turns down, but she doesn't argue.

We wait for Gwen's arrival after that, and the serf arrives in due course with two heavy knapsacks slung across either shoulder. I immediately take the weight from her outside the tent, nodding in thanks, and make back inside.

"My lord," she says, and I turn back in question. "Might I get the laundry while I'm here?"

An innocent enough request, and I nod in assent to let her in. The next moment I remember I've already given her our laundry this morning, as I waited for Merlin to wake—but its a moment too late. Gwen is already through the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" she crosses her arms, standing in front of Merlin and Morgana with a surprisingly ferocious frown. She makes no pretense to gather laundry, obviously suspecting something from whatever Morgana had her pack.

Even Morgana looks cowed. "I-I have to go or else—" she starts, and Gwen scoffs.

"That's not what I'm talking about. I know you have to follow your guardian. But what are you _thinking_ , Morgana, taking this _poor child_ with you? Did you not see the state he was in just this morning?"

"Hey now, I'm no younger than the rest of you," Merlin protests, to which the rest of the group rolls our eyes at.

"You're at least younger when it comes to the camp's ways," Gwen says firmly, though not unkindly. Then she turns back to Morgana with an expression that clearly demands explanation.

"He has to go. I saw him there. Merlin, he-he needs to be there, Gwen. Believe me." Morgana says it all in a whisper, but her eyes have never been more earnest. More faith-filled.

"Come with us," I say suddenly, and all heads swivel toward me in surprise.

"Its not safe, Arthur." Merlin shakes his head, but I lock eyes with the serf girl.

"The three of us will have to return," I say to her, the words as painful as they are true, "but you wouldn't. You could escape this place."

Its everything I want: for Merlin, Morgana, Freya, Muirden, even Nimueh.

Even myself.

"Arthur, my father and my brother are here," Gwen replies with a very small, very sad smile, and the lifting sensation in my chest all at once sinks.

Of course. _Of course_ this camp has sunk its teeth into everyone, every lowly serf, every lofty lord. All tied to this fruitless endeavor my father calls a war. "Of course," I say aloud, nodding.

" _Please_ be safe," Gwen says, her eyes moving from mine to Morgana's to Merlin's. When she leaves and the tent flap is shut behind her, Morgana sighs.

"Scattered and lost," she murmurs, eyes blinking and far-seeing. Her attention snaps back rather quickly, turning to Merlin.

"Are we ready?" Merlin asks, looking between us. I nod, carrying both knapsacks as well as my sword. I approach his side, surprised when Merlin puts as arm around me. "Just in case. I was holding on to you last time," he explains as Morgana stands at his left side. She smirks before throwing arms around both of us, so we're all together a mass of bodies and arms.

"Ready," she confirms close to my ear, and I feel Merlin take a breath.

"Líesing ús déaþsele: _Astýre ús þanonweard_."

He sucks in a pain-filled gasp just after, eyes burning gold. I tighten my hold on him. A gust of hair-raising wind blows, a warp of light blinds my eyes, and the ground shifts beneath us. I don't realize I shut my eyes until I blink them open, and see.

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 **A/N: Woohoo! We're nearing (the beginning of) the end (of this part). Lol. Thanks to all who keep commenting, you sustain my soul!**

 **Just A Reviewer: I'm glad you escaped! Life is rude like that sometimes. I'm glad my A/Ns were amusing, honestly I regret that I insert them sometimes because I'm worried they're a bit distracting from the story (or too telling). But now I regret less! I can't help myself in including them regardless, so.**  
 **Well Morgana and dragons are included in practically all of the rest of Recruit so I'm glad that's exciting to you. Your Kanen/Balinor theory made me crack up, that's quite ingenious. We'll see what's up in a jiffy, once Arthur and Merlin get that info Morgana was talking about ...and a little extra besides ;) I hope you have a lovely week, best of luck with your country! I don't think the US will really have much better things going on in a few months -_- Thanks for your comments, I've missed you.**

 **catherine10: Your belief is awesome and uplifting, despite wanting someone dead. Lol. That's a hope Merlin and Arthur have yet to really have, considering how harshly permanent the claim seems and seeing Gilli die before their eyes! But its definitely an idea to explore...later. Arthur has yet to actively disobey his father, you're right. In other words, he's a boy, not a man. But all in due course, my friend! Thanks for your comments, I always love them :)**


	40. Blue Light

**40\. Blue Light**

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Summary: _My heart struggles between racing and stopping altogether. The tunnel opens up into the largest cavern yet, one that stretches above us with the faintest of lights in the distance, hinting at another opening. But the cavern, large as it is, seems hardly spacious enough to fit the beast currently shackled inside of it._

* * *

The only problem is, there is nothing to see.

"Merlin?" I say, thankful I can at least still feel both him and Morgana in our huddle. My voice echoes, surprising me. "This doesn't look like Ealdor."

Its a place large and musty, with blackness worse than the night of new moon. Like nothing I've ever seen—or perhaps _not_ seen—before. I blink again, and can't tell the difference.

Merlin is twisting around, maybe looking as if he can actually make out anything in this dark. I make sure to keep a hold of his arm. "I think . . . I think I know where we are," he says.

"Well, in the meantime why doesn't Arthur aliesan your power for a little light?" Morgana puts in.

I nod, then realize a second later she won't be able to see it. "Right. Merlin?"

Our hands grapple in the dark, but only for a moment before my fingers touch the familiar skin of his wrist. Then it's second nature to slide them up into the crooks of Merlin's fingers, interlocking our hands and our souls. The usual burn through my veins, centering my thoughts on _Light_ , the twin flashes of Merlin's eyes in the dark as they burn gold. A small release—down from my chest through my arms out my palms—of that zapping energy.

Merlin's eyes fade only for a moment; in the next he whispers, "Leoht," and they flash again. He cups his hands, a bubble of blue light blowing up before drifting up above us, as light as a cloud.

I blink rapidly, trying to understand what I'm now able to see. My mind thinks objectively, _cave_ , for that is what this stone room must be, but the rest of me recoils at the formations around us. Fat, dripping stones that point down like teeth glare down from above; on either side of us two black openings yawn wide like gaping mouths. There's an earthy, rusted taint to the air that smells of forgotten things.

I wonder for a moment if I'm in the belly of a dragon.

Finally I rip my eyes away from the harsh landscape. Morgana seems to be having similar thoughts as mine judging by her darting eyes; Merlin just looks relieved as he pulls away from our loose embrace. "Yes, I know," he says, shooting me a smile I don't return. "We're not far from Ealdor."

"You're sure?" I ask, and it comes out more nervous than I intended.

"Yes; these are the caves just south of my town, past the forest. They're right at the base of Essetir's mountains." He walks in a circle, eying the room with ease and familiarity, and continues, "Will and I hide in here sometimes, when someone starts hunting in the forest. Or when we don't want to do our chores."

The dreamy, far-away look passes over Merlin's face quickly, his smile turning sour. "I wonder if he's come back."

It registers then that we'll be seeing Will again in no more than a few hours. And I'll be meeting Hunith, Merlin's mother, and the implications of that are all at once overwhelming. Her horrified eyes, blue like Merlin's maybe, spilling with tears, filling with hatred. And the least I can hope for is that she simply hates me but understands why Merlin cannot stay: the second we were caught she'd surely be killed for the trouble.

But in the end what matters is that she listens to us and helps the villagers understand the coming threat in time to save their lives. To stop _the blood, blood everywhere, death everywhere_ , that Morgana foretold.

"Perhaps we could have the villagers escape and wait out the battle in here," Morgana says.

"They wouldn't want to. A dragon used to live in here, so they say," Merlin replies with a smirk. "Even my mum said we should never go in."

"They might change their minds if its an old home of one versus an actual fleet of the beasts," I retort, and look back and forth at the different tunnels. "Now please tell me you know which way leads out of here."

Merlin bites his lip, looking as well. "I, ehm . . . I'd have to check. We didn't go back this far very often."

"Right, well let's start looking," I nod, starting towards the one ahead of me. Merlin immediately blocks my path.

"No, let me Arthur. Its quicker if you two stay here, Morgana can keep up her strength while I find the right way. It'll just take a few minutes."

"Five," I tell him frankly. "And then I'm coming after you."

Merlin grins, taking that as consent. He looks up at the light above us; with one flick of his wrist, eyes glowing, the shining globe twists itself in half. The remaining halves swell up to a large size again. Merlin gestures at one of them to follow, and like a trained dog it bobs behind him as he starts to hurry across the uneven ground.

"Merlin," I say when he's nearly out of sight. I can see the faint outline of his profile against the black of the passage as he turns.

"Arthur?"

"Don't be an idiot."

Merlin snorts and disappears around the bend. I try to be consoled by the fact there's still a part of his magic I haven't taken away; any kind of actual life-threatening situation that might await him in the winding passages can be met with the full blast of his power. Even if it is last-second. I turn back to Morgana, who looks rather disgruntled where she stands, arms folded across her chest.

"I'm fine, truly," she snaps, answering the question just as I've opened my mouth to ask it. "There's really no fuss to be made. Maybe Uther is closer than I thought."

"He'd still be a day's ride from these parts," I say, and she shrugs, sitting down on the dirt-covered floor.

"Then it just hasn't hit me yet."

I nod, biting on my cheek as I try to avoid thinking about the next twenty-four hours. We'll need to come up with a way to get the villagers out safely, convince them to listen to us, find out Kanen's plans and thwart them, and somehow have Merlin convince five dragons to stop fighting without actually telling him to convince them.

And in the meantime Merlin has to keep himself from tripping over a stone and falling into a cavernous pit.

I can just see it now, and that's when I realize I've been pacing, probably for some time. "Has it been too long, do you think? Should I go look for him?" I stop and ask, not able to conceal the tension in my voice.

Harsh shadows from the light above obscure Morgana's expression as she answers, "I think you'll know, if it comes to that."

I frown at her, not understanding. "When it's been too long? But what if the tunnel is just longer than he thought or—"

A light flickers from behind me and I cut off, turning to see a blue orb making its way toward us: from the tunnel Merlin disappeared into.

It halts just then, as if seeing us look at it, and immediately starts bobbing back the way it came. "Wait!" I shout, the sound echoing harshly back. The light doesn't slow. "Morgana, do you think he's—?"

"Go after it," she replies, frowning.

I barely waste an extra second before starting to run. There's no time to dwell on the idea I am being swallowed whole, not if Merlin has sent for help. The ground is a bit tricky, dipping up and down with rocks and bumps in unfamiliar places, but the light doesn't seem to care as I struggle to keep up. The tunnel makes a slight but steady decline, curving one way then the next, before winking out just before I turn another bend.

But I wouldn't have needed light anyway. By an unnatural bluish light Merlin is visible, face un-creasing with relief as I stop there. He's on his feet, though visibly shaken and sending off waves of fear. It only takes a moment for me to see why.

My heart struggles between racing and stopping altogether. The tunnel opens up into the largest cavern yet, one that stretches above us with the faintest of lights in the distance, hinting at another opening. But the cavern, large as it is, seems hardly spacious enough to fit the beast currently shackled inside of it.

A dragon. It can't be anything less, with a body larger than any animal I've seen, decorated in sapphire scales that light up the cavern in that blue light. A graceful, meaty neck spined with horns moves its head from the taloned paws it had been resting on, noticing my entrance. A pair of glimmering amber eyes stare intelligently at me, scaly lips stretching back into a smirk that reveals teeth as long as my arm.

"Are you afraid, little one?" it asks in a rumbling voice, laughing a throaty sound when I stumble back in shock. Merlin at least stands his ground, though I can still feel the uncertainty and fear coming off him in waves. I'm sure my feelings come off no different, belatedly remembering to brandish my sword.

My one consolation is the thick circle of iron locked around the dragon's throat, attached to links of chain that look as big as me. The beast is contained, at least. The knowledge that we can run and the dragon will not be able to hunt us down is barely enough, however; I make to grab Merlin's wrist and tug him away.

Merlin shrugs me off, eyes wide and a bit glassy as he turns to the dragon and says, "You have your proof now."

The beast hums, ducking its great head in a nod. "That I have. Though I believe it will take some convincing of your little master to grant you that power."

"First you need to convince me," Merlin replies with a bravado of confidence. The dragon smirks again, showing teeth, and I repress a shudder. I have no idea what they're even going on about—but it doesn't matter.

"Merlin, we need to get out of here before it eats us alive," I tell him in a rush, not caring if the creature hears.

It snorts. "My name is Kilith, and I do not eat men. Though I could easily cook you, chains or no."

"But that would accomplish nothing, would it not?" Merlin points out.

"Indeed, young warlock. It is imperative that I am set free. I have waited more than a decade," Kilith grumbles, twin ribbons of steam twirling out of its nostrils. "It is long past time I return to my lord."

"You mean the mad king of Camelot?" I accuse, summoning a glare at the creature.

Kilith huffs in disdain. "A pitiful title. I do not know. But I know that my lord has been in need of me for years; I must go to him before it is too late." The dragon leans down, neck stretching so that its face is uncomfortably level with ours and much, much closer. Kilith's breath gusts out and burns my cheeks as it adds, "And I must take you with me."

* * *

 **A/N: Yeaaaaaaahhhhhh, a dragon happened. Took long enough, am I right? (Did it meet your expectations? Fall under, rise above?)**

 **Kilith is not Kilgarrah, just in case that needs clearing up. Also, I want to point out that there isn't actually a spell for the ball of blue light (from the Poisoned Chalice). Merlin is literally reciting the opening lines of 'Beowulf' when he's chanting that mumbo-jumbo in his sleep. So 'Leoht' is what I went with, which is a spell for a different but less convenient kind of spell Merlin uses later on. (Though who are we kidding, any rules of magic/spellcasting in BBC Merlin were literally nonexistent so in the end, I do what I want.)**

 ***You can stop reading here (if you haven't already), but I got a ridiculously amazingly long review from 'Just A Reviewer' and my answer is, well, also ridiculously long***

 **Just A Reviewer: -hugs back- Yeaaah, once the whole thing happens in Ealdor you'll get more info on what's up. I will say that Kanen is currently 'occupying' Ealdor, not attacking it. So he's more like terrorizing the villagers as a resident, not coming in and attacking them :) Yay, thank you for your Morgana-enthusiasm! I encourage that, she's my faaavv if my author picture hasn't given that away yet. I'm so glad you're finding the pacing works well, that's always a relief to hear! And that the boys being young doesn't seem far-fetched beyond a reasonable doubt.**

 **LOLOLOLOL YES I AM EVIL HAVE MY A/Ns ABOUT THIS NOT WARNED YOU ENOUGH? Heehee in my defense when I wrote this I had no idea how hyped up everyone would get about the seeing dragons thing, so I kind of unintentionally tortured you all. I also find it hilarious that I'm worse than J.K. Rowling, as there are so many characters you could be referring to her killing off that I can only guess which one you mean. I'll take it a very flattering compliment ;) And thank you so much for liking my unpredictability! I'm trying to ballet tiptoe along the line of aggravating/tantalizing :D**

 **Now now, don't get too ahead of yourself about Merlin/dragons, I never said he controlled Aithusa! And I would happily join you and Virebax in our own little Merlin community on Mars. Totes gonna happen. I was thinking I would need to post Virebax's little P.S. here for you, but I guess you saw it! Lol. Don't get too friendly with each other, now, you'll start ganging up on me! (Jk, please talk to each other if you please, I feel like I'm matchmaking my two favorite children.) Love ya, thanks for your ridiculously long, ridiculously amazing review (I was so happy reading the whole thing I was outwardly squealing), and stay awesome!**

 **catherine10: You betcha! Action is on the menu for the next five/six chapters/the rest of the universe. I figured a little Morgana goes a long way, so she's been sprinkled into this fic every now and then, but she's in the main action from now on! Sorry for the wait, I'm so glad you're excited to keep reading because it keeps me motivated to get these edited and posted quicker! Thanks for your review :)**


	41. His Lord

**41\. His Lord**

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Summary: _Perhaps this is how we save Ealdor._

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"We're not going anywhere with you," I say, lowering my weapon. "I'm not stupid, and neither is Merlin though he may pretend it." There is no chance I would let Merlin free a beast the size of a small mountain to the skies, not without a death wish. The dragon seems especially focused on Merlin, but I can almost sense the animosity it feels towards me.

"Not without freeing me first, of course," Kilith ignores me, still addressing Merlin. The dragon's wings ruffle as it adds, "Which would be in your best interest, young warlock, if you seek freedom from your captor."

Merlin glances at me with an unreadable expression, the word 'captor' sticking between us like a splinter. I am, after all; captor of his magic, of his freedom, of his life.

"It's not Arthur's fault," he says anyway, ever my pardoner.

I hate it more every time.

The dragon bristles, a dark cloud of smoke curling from its mouth. "Then you were not forced into a twisted perversion of the great Warriors Bond, took those marks you've showed me of your own free will?" Merlin's mouth opens and closes before Kilith coughs a dark laugh. "I thought not. I was chained here because of the bidding of a master like him." His glowing eyes fix back on me, all at once assessing and condemning. "It is only right I am released by the same."

"If you are released you will be another enemy to fight in the battles ahead," Merlin replies. "The dragons have joined the battle now, trying to kill those like me." His jaw sets, face hardening to reality, and I can only agree that there is little chance of another outcome. No doubt we will see this great sapphire beast again if Merlin released it; on the front lines, or even sooner, in the fight for Ealdor shortly to come.

"Then I must now convince you," the dragon says with confidence in it's smile. "I can save precious lives, young warlock, and not only those from the kingdom you attack. I learned from my lord that the sorcerer's lives are not their own, just before my imprisonment."

"It's true." Merlin and Kilith both turn to me as I interject, "My father, he - well, sorcerers like Merlin have been found, taken, and then recruited since before I was born. The recruits are magically tied to their guardians, used as weapons for his army."

Kilith's eyes glow a deeper shade of gold. "If this is still true, and the 'recruits' you speak of are in magical bondage, my brothers and sisters will stop the fight. I swear it."

"Then Camelot loses its advantage," I point out, and Kilith snarls.

"We would never willingly kill humans, enslaved to masters that force their hand." The dragon's smile grows too wide, shows too much teeth, as it adds, "We would set the masters ablaze with pleasure."

"Your lord did not tell you this, then," Merlin says with a bitter kind of amusement. "There is no chance of sparing the slaves without sparing their masters. If Arthur dies, it means my death as well."

Kilith does not speak at first. The dragon's scaly brow turns down over its eyes, and it sighs a heavy, century-old breath. "My lord did not," it agrees, looking even more grave. "He did not have the time to speak at all, before his own master ordered him to kill me."

" _Your lord_ is a recruit?" Merlin repeats, echoing my own surprise.

"Yes! And it is dire I return to him," Kilith says, and this time there is much more urgency in the dragon's voice. "I will tell my brothers and sisters fighting to stop all attacks, but then I must find him. Release me, and come with me."

Perhaps this is how we save Ealdor. Kilith will find the other dragons, tell them to turn back, and by proxy Merlin will have convinced them all to leave Ealdor alone. My father won't die, Kanen will be defeated, and no villager will perish.

Merlin and I could both leave with Kilith; run away like Merlin wanted.

"No."

I startle at hearing Merlin's voice over my own, replying the same.

"My mother and Will, I have to make sure," Merlin says, eyes round and almost unbelieving at what he's turning down. But he's right; there are no guarantees of who will walk out of this fight, be it civilian or recruit or soldier.

"Morgana," I add with a nod, though my mind also trails back to Gaius's warning for Hunith: _Do_ not _go to Camelot. We have no allies there._ "But I will still give Merlin the power to free you, dragon," I say, stepping closer than I would have dared a few minutes ago. "In hopes you are one of your word."

Kilith smirks, but nods with eyes that watch me intently as I aliesan _Free_ to Merlin. The tug at the center of my chest is unavoidably present now, intensified by the ever-increasing amount of magic I have yet to take back from him. Transporting us, lighting the cave, now releasing the dragon. Not to mention the ever-present string connecting us at the point ' _YOU CANNOT DIE, YOU WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES, YOU_ HAVE TO LIVE.'

Merlin closes the little remaining distance between us and the dragon, Kilith lowering his head gracefully to better expose the metal around it. The collar looks ill-fit, too tight around the dragon's scaly neck. When Merlin hesitantly places a hand on its surface, Kilith shudders.

He mutters in that foreign tongue, far enough away I can't make out much of it. When Merlin finishes his eyes flash-gold, as always, though I find it curious how they match the glowing amber of the dragon's-and the metal around Kilith's neck groans before splitting.

Unleashed, Kilith lets out a roar that blows my hair back, a too-close view of the beast's sharp mouth directly before me. Merlin steps back, and the dragon wastes no time before extending its unused wings to their full span.

"The dragons coming to Ealdor, tell them first," I say the moment the roar ends, but the dragon is already flapping its wings. Kilith lets out another roar, this one accompanied by a burst of fire that the dragon directs up above us at the distant light. I grab Merlin, still much too close to the steadily-rising beast, yanking him by the arm back to the mouth of the cavern.

The further it rises, the darker the huge cavern grows. Soon enough Kilith disappears into the dim light high above us, and only Merlin's globe of light illuminates the bottom. "We might have done a very good thing, or a very bad one," he says, quite accurately, and I nod.

"As with most decisions of late. Let's get back to Morgana," I say briskly, and after one last upwards glance at where Kilith flew off, Merlin nods.

When we make our way back it is at a noticeable incline, one I hadn't noticed in my hurry on the way down. "Did you really think that was the way out?" I ask, peering at Merlin with a cocked brow.

He smiles half-heartedly. "No."

My eyes widen in surprise. "No? Then why did you-?"

"You said to take us where we need to go, when you aliesanned. I think my magic took that literally," Merlin replies somberly, looking ahead with his brows drawn together.

"So we were meant to set the dragon free?" I ask, incredulous.

"No, I didn't say that," he shakes his head, "but we at least were meant to meet him. And just hope he meant what he said."

"Otherwise, what's one more dragon to slay?" I shrug with fake bravado, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

Any traces of levity are immediately gone, however, when we arrive back at the original cavern and don't immediately see Morgana. "Morgana?" I call, my voice echoing as I immediately search for her figure. The blue light I left behind with her still bobs against the domed ceiling, warping the room around us.

"Arthur," I hear, a bare whisper to our left, and then Merlin and I turn to see Morgana curled against the wall, half in the fetal position.

"Morgana," I say again, this time in relief as I collapse to my knees in front of her. The girl's face is ghastly pale and blue-ish in the light, lips indistinguishable and eyes fluttering feverishly. I put a hand against her forehead, unsurprised to feel its burning heat. "Here, come here," I murmur and position us so I'm sitting against the cave wall, Morgana wrapped in my arms.

"She'll be alright, won't she?" Merlin asks nervously next to me, and I feel a pulse of fear run through him.

I think back to the instances I've seen, of recruits running from their guardians and paying the consequence. Freya, twice, and an older recruit woman who was found already dead. Uther had her body displayed in front of the fire during supper, made sure every recruit currently at the camp had seen it.

Its a sight to see. The black marks unravel, unweaving from their pattern starting at the wrist and up to the heart. Instead they curl and grow, webbing around the skin like corrupted veins, until the recruit is so covered they are unrecognizeable as little more than a demon. By then death is imminent.

I check Morgana's clammy neck first, relieved to see the marks haven't reached there at the least. But her hands, cold and limp at her sides, are patterned in the black claim lines already. I grab them, interlace our fingers hoping to at least warm her.

A shock travels up both my arms, not unlike earlier that day when I had squeezed her wrist. Morgana draws in a sharp breath, then groans, head falling back. "What did you do?" Merlin asks, and this time I do respond.

"I'm not sure, but-" I don't finish. Morgana is slowly opening her eyes, looking a bit more lucid now. She pushes back from me a little, clutching her head with one hand.

"Ow," she says, and Merlin finds it in himself to laugh. I just squeeze her other hand sympathetically, and Morgana startles at the contact this time. "I think Uther's absence . . . just hit me," she laughs without really smiling, and pulls her hand away. The interlacing pattern of black already seems to be fading.

Merlin looks between us, quite clearly thinking something, but he doesn't share. Instead he says, "Then let's get closer to Ealdor. You can wait near the treeline, Morgana. Arthur and I will get into the village after dusk and try to get everyone out by dawn."

"The company should arrive by the end of the day, tomorrow," I nod. "That's more than enough time. And by then, you'll be feeling much better, Morgana."

"Already am," she shrugs, though her face is still pale and skin cold to touch. "And I'd feel even better if we were out of these caves."

I nod, and have her positioned in between us to stand. Morgana leans heavily with both arms around each of our necks, but she can walk. We go at a slow pace, one foot in front of the other out of the opposite tunnel, which inclines before eventually evening out.

"That's it, I think," Merlin points as the tunnel curves and widens. Grey light very subtly hits the jagged curves of the cave, promising sun and trees and anything but the ghastly blue light that we've been under. I can't help hastening our pace just a little, though Morgana seems happy to match it, both of us ready to be out under the open sky again.

And then we are. The sun is low in the sky, throwing shades of red and orange against the grey forest scene. It carries little difference from Ascetir, except perhaps a bit denser, and that will be good for cover.

"Do you need a rest?" I ask Morgana. There are drops of sweat on her brow, but she shakes her head.

"No, I can manage, thanks," she says, trying to pull off an irritated expression. It ends up looking more like she's nauseous.

"Not much farther, then," Merlin says, nodding towards what looks like a trail ahead. His hesitance in the cave is gone now, all confident in the forest he probably used to run through daily. With his real friend, having actual fun, with little cares concerning anything but bug bites and trouser holes.

So we keep going. The sun gets lower, and the shadows longer, but the wintry chill isn't as biting as it could be. Walking will probably help keep Morgana warm, if it doesn't fatigue her too greatly.

I remember when she was sick, her father away and her mother gone. Gaius put her in the quarantined tent, hoping to keep the sickness, the 'lace fever' as it was called, from spreading to more people. It'd already killed Yalta and Rais, my playmate. Still I snuck in when Yilgrid fell asleep, whispering that she couldn't leave me too, that you don't give up, you never do.

I can't decide if her hope for Uther's death, and by proxy her own, means that what I whispered to her all those years ago has turned out false, or altogether more true.

Regardless, her smile is soft when the trees begin to thin and the last sliver of the sun is extinguished. A small little settlement peeks just over the next little hill, friendly smoke curling up and visible in the approaching twilight. Merlin stops us, sighs a shaky breath.

He isn't smiling when I look at him, eyes glassy again but this time with something closer to despair than wonder. "I'm going to see them again," he breathes. And it should be shouted, it should be cried out with tears of joy, but instead I feel the whispered statement heavy with all that it implies.

He won't get to stay.

* * *

 **A/N: I blame BBC Merlin for my tendency towards making Uther an evil crack-job and all dragons shady mofos. At least Ealdor is but one chapter away! (You wouldn't be wanting more dragons, would you? Psshh of course not, that's not you guys at all)**

 **catherine10: I know! I mean, from the get-go they said dragons were "extinct" but I totally did not buy it and was proved right upon reaching the fourth season with baby Aithusa! Of course then BBC Merlin basically used her as a symbol of the show: so bright and happy and full of potential, only to be TWISTED and DEFORMED and STRUCK DUMB by the plot. Curses. Anywhos, I obviously have a lot of Aithusa feels. I'm a lover of dragons as well (hence the approaching dragon battles) but I find them actually terribly tricky to write well. Hence my delay in sticking them into the plot. Thanks for your awesome review, I always love talking to you :D**


	42. Long Gone

**42\. Long Gone**

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Summary: _To my surprise, Merlin doesn't hesitate. He rips his left sleeve back, baring the claiming marks with forced determination, and Will looks appropriately devastated at the sight of them. Like he'd just been given news of Merlin's death; and perhaps they are as good as._

* * *

Merlin and I leave Morgana sitting against a tree, mostly concealed by the thick underbrush. "We'll be back . . . hopefully soon," is all I can promise.

"Go. Hurry," Morgana says, motioning with a hand.

I nod, but my feet won't move. She is so small, sitting there, without her usual bravado of confidence and self-assurance. Eyes wide and uncertain, shoulders hunched and narrowed in the cold. I don't want to leave her, and suddenly feel the irony of it all: Uther failed in trying to keep Morgana and I apart. Even after years of silence between us I still know her better than I know myself.

 _I know she'll survive this._

 _She will._

I jolt from my thoughts, surprised to hear Merlin in my head after weeks of silence. I must have done it first, though, if he heard me. He still looks somber, but it's with a smile that he motions his head for us to go. "I'll see you soon," I tell Morgana one more time, and am finally able to rip myself away.

The sky is a dark grey, and the moon hanging heavy above us bleaches the forest to bone-whites and ash-blacks. Merlin's village gets closer with every step. "Do you think Kanen really is there, right now?" Merlin whispers as we try to walk quietly, feet shushing against crumbled leaves. I haven't seen any scouts yet, but that doesn't mean they aren't near.

 _Leon said Kanen has been claiming a lot of villages along the border._ Merlin's head snaps toward me, one eyebrow raised in surprise. _If we're trying to be quiet_ , I shrug, and he smirks.

 _Alright then._

 _So if he has that kind of reach, he probably knows my father is coming_ , I continue.

 _He might be counting on it_. Merlin pauses, before continuing, _Dragons_.

 _Yes, he might have anticipated_ -

 _No, Arthur, DRAGONS_. Merlin points at the sky ahead and I stop mid-step, staring in awe at the three flying figures that were not there a moment ago. High enough to be mistaken for birds, if birds had such long necks and tails, but even in the dark there is something serpentine to their movements. They circle around each other lower and lower, before landing gracefully into the midst of the dark town.

 _We might have missed our chance_ , I tell Merlin. We didn't think about this kind of obstacle. _How much do you wager dragons can see in the dark?_

 _Maybe they're going to sleep?_ he replies with hesitant optimism, and I snort.

 _Yeah, sounds likely._

The forest line thins and abruptly ends, giving way to open fields that are barren and empty in the wake of winter. We walk over shorn wheat stocks that are trampled and shriveled, reaped long ago. Merlin missed the harvest.

When the first of the smallest, most humble dwellings near, I can't help but put a hand to the pommel of my sheathed sword. We haven't found a single sign of patrol, and it makes me wary. But perhaps Kanen really is unaware of the small army a day's march away. Or maybe he is not in Ealdor at all.

 _This next one is Will and and his grandmother's_ , Merlin tells me as we scurry from shadow to shadow of two more cottages. The coming one is small but solid-looking, like it was made by more experienced hands. Some semblance of a path starts just before, packed dirt that leads to the heart of the little town. I hesitate to cross it—even if Ealdor is unnaturally still for it just being night-for fear of being seen. Two young boys scurrying about at night probably wouldn't raise alarm at first, but it would definitely start questions and likely get Merlin recognized.

I grab his sleeve as he makes toward the house. _Let's limit it to Will and your mother seeing who you are._

Merlin pulls out of my grip, and gives off an echo of resentment and anger that stings to feel. But it softens down to regret, and Merlin sighs before nodding once. _Right._

We run from our cover across the path to the south wall of the cottage, and my heartbeat picks up more thanks to adrenaline than exertion. Merlin carefully moves to the edge of the wall, where a back door is visible. Just as my heartbeat slows and he takes a step forward, the all-too-close sound of a dragon's roar rattles the air. It doesn't sound much like Kilith's; much quieter in comparison, and more of a short, annoyed sound than a cry of rage. But it's enough to have me and Merlin tripping over each other to get into the house.

He opens the unlocked door and we stumble inside, chests heaving as I shut it with my back. Merlin laughs in relief, running a hand through his hair, and I slump against the shut door. The one-room house is dark and quiet despite our commotion.

Until it isn't. "Merlin?" a voice asks in utter disbelief, sounding like its coming above our heads. Merlin's smile widens, stretching across his face wider than I think I've seen before.

"Will, I—"

"YOU!"

Out of nowhere the weight of a body crashes me to the ground. I immediately struggle, resisting the rough hands that are trying to pin my arms to the dirt.

But then Merlin yanks them off me by the shoulders, hissing, " _Will!_ "

I blink the dirt from my eyes, hardly recognizing the boy from so many months ago. Who must have jumped from the loft, which I can see easily now that I'm horizontal. He's staring, a lost, devastated look on his face as he glances from Merlin to me and back.

"He's—! But you—What are you . . . you're. Here," he says dumbly, and then glares at me half in confusion and half with malice. I get back on my feet, brushing off the dust.

"Yeah," Merlin says, appearing just as lost for words. But he grabs Will's arm, forcing his hate-filled gaze away from me. He blinks as he looks Merlin up and down, swallowing noisily.

Merlin pulls the boy into a hug, and his friend lets out a shuddering breath before returning it. "Thought you dead," he mumbles into Merlin's shoulder. Merlin doesn't answer, just holds on another second before letting go. "Where did you go? How'd you escape? Why's he here?" Will asks in rapid succession, eyes wide.

"I didn't escape, Will." Merlin shakes his head, mouth twisting. It's obvious only to me what he's not saying: _I can't escape._ "I'm just here to help. Is Kanen in Ealdor right now?"

"What do you mean _you didn't escape_?" Will demands, eyes immediately narrowing. "You're here, aren't you?"

"Not for long, just long enough to get you and Mum and whoever else will leave _out_ of here. The dragons—"

"Your mum's not here, Merlin," Will says, almost apologetically and Merlin gapes at him.

"Is she—?"

"No, Hunith's fine, last I talked to her. But gone. Said she had to leave, find a way to save you." Will says it in an accusing tone, eyes angry and hurt.

"Gone?" Merlin whispers, chin trembling.

"I told her you'd left with a boy who said he needed your help. We looked, she kept traveling to the surrounding towns asking if you'd been seen. But Kanen started raiding us, then he started _taking over_ , and no one knew a thing about where you could be. Last I saw her she said—she said, someone must have found out you had magic. _Magic_ , you idiot, why'd you never say anything? And Hunith was worried Cenred had recruited you, or that you'd been sold into slavery, or something even worse. She told me to look out in case you might return, and check if you'd gotten marks, black on your wrists, like your father did . . ." Will's eyes trail down slowly to Merlin's sleeves. The black peeking from it is visible against his pale skin, even in this dark.

To my surprise, Merlin doesn't hesitate. He rips his left sleeve back, baring the claiming marks with forced determination, and Will looks appropriately devastated at the sight of them. Like he'd just been given news of Merlin's death; and perhaps they are as good as. "What did she tell you?" Merlin demands, and I feel both impressed and disheartened at the steel in his tone.

Will sucks in a breath that hitches; he has to clear his throat before answering, shakily, "Not much more about him than she told you, by what you've said. Just that he had black lines all over both his wrists, and it was why he couldn't stay. She was worried you would as well. Merlin . . . Merlin, what does it _mean_?"

Merlin opens and closes his mouth, glancing at me as if he's just remembered I'm here. Its not a very pretty thing to explain, of course, but all the more reason to do it for him. I pull up my own sleeve for inspection. The village boy's eyes go wide as he glances between us in question. "It's complicated, and we don't have time right now—basically I control his magic," I say quickly, and in pulling my sleeve back down miss the wind-up of a bony punch.

It's hard enough that I stagger back, but immediately draw my sword out halfway in defense. "Stop!" Merlin says, moving in between us with both hands out. He glares at my weapon and continues, "The enemy right now is Kanen. We can worry about the rest of this later."

Will sputters in disbelief. " _Merlin_ , he controls your magic! If that's true, death isn't good enough for him!"

"There are other sorcerers here like me, fighting against their will, and if we don't figure out a way to stop Kanen's dragons _they'll die_ ," Merlin answers forcefully, and I immediately think of Morgana, wasting away against that tree.

Will gapes, and I re-sheathe my sword the rest of the way. Both actions seem to appease Merlin. "Good," he continues with a nod. "Now that we have that settled—Will, does Kanen have any patrols? How tight is his hold on the town?"

"It's, it's been pretty lax of late . . . Merlin, I don't understand. Are you saying there are other sorcerers that . . .?"

"Are being controlled?" Merlin sighs. "Yes. An army of them."

Will shakes his head in disbelief. "But then, that means your father—" He cuts off, looking stricken.

Merlin's resolved face wavers at the implication. "Yes . . . probably. It, it makes sense, I guess." The thought leaves me shaken—Merlin's _own father_ , like the claim had been inevitable all along, like Merlin could never have escaped it—and Merlin must be thinking something along the same lines. His breaths get harder, shoulders moving visibly. He looks back at me, eyes wide and tear-filled. "Arthur," he says. Pleading.

But there's nothing to reassure with.

"She's going to find help, I swear Merlin," Will says instead, with forced conviction. He grabs Merlin by the shoulder, gives him an encouraging smile. "Whatever it takes. She was going to Camelot, last I spoke to her."

My stomach sinks.

"Hunith? To Camelot?"

Gaius's words ring in my head: " _Tell her: do not go to Camelot. We have no allies there."_

"Why? Why Camelot?" I demand, stepping closer.

" _She can't go there,"_ Gaius had said, so urgently. " _Will you tell her for me, Arthur?"_

Will ignores me. "Your mum told me she'd ask for help in finding you. Didn't say why she thought a bloody _king_ would care. Somehow though, Merlin, she'll find a way to free you. I know it."

"Why the king of Camelot? Why not another man?" I press, and Will glances at me with irritation.

"I dunno. But she said she'd petition him for help against Kanen as well. Which was a nice thought," he says in a voice void of hope. "But she was wrong about that, at least; when the dragons came with their banner we all realized."

"Realized what?" I ask when Merlin still doesn't say a thing. He just looks at Will blankly, eyes lost. Probably still reeling at the idea that his father was—still is, even, if he's survived all these years—a recruit.

Will sighs, and glances out the single, square window of the cottage before answering. "It was the banner of Camelot. It's on a pole now, in the center of the town. The bastard told us when the beasts arrived: the mad king hired Kanen himself."

* * *

 **A/N: I want to give a shout out to my awesome reviewers. You all have such unique personalities and ways of reviewing, I could go on for days about my love for each of you. It's probably a bit unhealthy. But I SOOO appreciate the enthusiasm and dedication that you have shown towards this fanfic in the past eight (nine?) months of it being posted. Seriously, I eat and breathe your comments and your love. It sustains me, and I also (get ready for gushy gushy-ness) have grown to love each one of you as well. Indeed, there is about 200 people actively reading my new updates, according to my stats, so its really only thanks to the faithfulness of you few that I've been privileged with this amount and quality of reviews. Bless you.**

 **catherine10: Glad you liked Kilith, he was fun to write! And though it'll be a while, that's not the last of him you'll see ;) I unfortunately cannot say who his lord is, though I like your thinking! Hopefully when all is revealed (ha, even I haven't reached that part where I'm currently writing) it makes sense. Thanks for your review!**

 **Just A Reviewer: But you've left me in a predicament now, see, being a guest. I can't respond to two amazingly long reviews at once! I really would be very pleased if you got yourself an account, dear JustA (can I call you that? Less of a . . . type-ful, lol), because then I could pm you without a worry of how long my response gets! Or strike unrelated conversations! Alas, I will make do for now ;)**

 **I'm so glad you liked that particular dragon-belly sentence! I remember when I was writing this last year my dad helped me get through my writer's block by telling me to describe how Arthur felt about the cave. What poured out I was very proud of, and even more so knowing a reader particularly liked it!**

 **I would love to go to France, though I doubt my family would very much appreciate me going there (if I even had the money) with Europe being in the state its in. Not that Russia is going to swoop in and take over tomorrow, but state of affairs aren't exactly peachy of late. I definitely want to go someday, to the UK and France and Germany, all of which many of my ancestors immigrated from :) If you guys ever want to see me, just go to America (yes, COME! Come to my laaaand) and look for the pasty white girl with a mean resting face (I can't help it! But I'm not actually rude, I swear!) living in a red desert. That's me.**

 **Please pressure me to your heart's most utmost desire. I will not be offended, I will be flattered. And more motivated! Though now that I've updated, I expect to hear that you indeed stood up and danced!**


	43. Target

**43\. Target**

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Summary: _My heart quickens, and the burn on my chest twinges ever-so-slightly, phantom pain reminding of what I've tried to ignore: that Merlin must be the one they're searching for. It simply makes too much sense._

* * *

In the dark of Will's small cottage there is little to do but wait for night to settle in. Only the quietest, darkest hours of it will suit our purposes. Will's grandmother, who had gone unnoticed at first by me and Merlin, snores obliviously as she sleeps on a cot in the corner. Will insists on Merlin getting some rest before we try to evacuate the village, and I can't help but agree. He seems irreparably shaken from the revelation of his father, eyes wide and distant. Still horror-filled.

"You lured him into a trap," Will says, quiet enough to not disturb Merlin and the old woman. But I can still hear the anger laced in his voice.

I look up from where I'm sitting, leaning against a frozen wall of the cottage. "Yes," I admit, meeting his eyes. There's no point in shying away from this. "My—my companion, he and I were sent on a sorceress's premonition that someone in this village was powerful. Worth recruiting."

"Worth enslaving," Will corrects, and I don't argue. "So you had an innocent woman cursed, asked Merlin to heal her, and then kidnapped him when he managed to save her."

"Is she still alive?"

"Yes. She's the one who took Hunith to Camelot, actually, after Hunith nursed her back to health."

"I'm glad." I nod, remembering how Foehart had said he would "take care of her." Busy as I'd been moving Merlin's unconscious body at the time, I never knew for certain if she'd been knocked unconscious or something much, much worse.

Will glares. "Yeah? Glad you've his magic all to yourself as well I'm sure. Glad you've got him brainwashed into thinking he can't escape, into trusting you."

I blink, take a breath, and try to answer without the words "I'm sorry." They'd only serve to rile him up further. "The claim, it binds his magic inside of me. I control when its given and its purposes. Not his mind. He can still run—but, if he runs, the distance slowly kills him. Or If I die. The claim makes it so he dies as well."

" _NO_. No, that's—that's—" Will steps back, face twisted in both disbelief and outrage.

"The truth," I say, and rise to my feet. "We both saw it happen, right in front of us. I know you want to save him. I . . . I wish I could. Save him, from myself, I mean. But the claim's never been broken. And my father is Uther, the warlord taking over Camelot's lands—if I were to run off with Merlin, he would find us, and kill Merlin without a second thought. Recruits, sorcerers, they aren't human to him."

Will swallows around a clenched jaw. He looks me up and down with assessing eyes before asking, "And to you?"

I try to smile. Finally an easy question. "Merlin is the most kind, most forgiving, most loving, most—most _human_ I've ever met. And a much better person than me."

Will sighs and looks down at his feet, face softening. "And me," he says, letting out a quick breath that sounds too regretful to be a laugh. "I should have never left him alone with you."

"You couldn't have known," I say. "You couldn't have stopped us."

Will looks up at me with an expression much too old to be on a young boy's face. "I know. But I could have died trying."

A rumble from outside interrupts us, the too-close sound of a dragon. Speaking, it sounds like, though it's a bit too far to hear individual words. "Do they ever sleep?" I ask, and the boy shrugs.

"Dunno. There's usually one or two flying around, circling around the village. Even at night. But I've never heard this before."

"One of them is speaking, I think." And it sounds familiar. My heart stutters, and I move towards the back door, saying, "Wait here with Merlin while I check on something."

"Wait, what are you—"

I shut the door behind me, run through the tall, dying grass to the next cottage, and then the next. Praying all the while that my suspicion is correct, though it is based on little more than blind hope. The village is completely covered in shadow now, night in full reign. When I reach the center of town, it is unrecognizable from its bright, midday spectacle of months ago.

Void of people, animals, goods. Instead filled with dragons.

Their bodies take the bulk of all available space. One is no bigger than a horse, though the others are of larger, varying sizes. By far the largest one, a very familiar blue dragon, stands in the center of them—confirming my suspicion. Its scales sparkle even brighter in the light of the moon.

Kilith the dragon, fulfilling its promise. Its last few words are discernible now from where I crouch, between two closely-built cottages. " . . . and I must find him. You must all turn back."

"The king has commanded we come here, to help the smelly man kill Uther and then find the boy." A dark, indiscernible-colored dragon answers, voice slightly higher. It blinks solemn, green eyes at Kilith as it steps forward. "We cannot just go back, not on the word of a long-dead brother who is without proof."

 _Find the boy._ The ruffians' mission, orders from Kanen, had been orders from Camelot all along. Find the boy who could overpower the claim. My heart quickens, and the burn on my chest twinges ever-so-slightly, phantom pain reminding of what I've tried to ignore: that Merlin must be the one they're searching for. It simply makes too much sense.

I should go, take Merlin and have him transport us far from here. Somewhere no one will find us. But Kilith speaks again, and I find I'm frozen to the spot.

"Proof will shortly come, Aaleth," the dragon rumbles. It bows its head, continuing, "But my lord must be saved first. Let your consciences decide." With that the beast rears back its head and unfurls its wings, spreading them fully before vacating to the sky.

The remaining dragons growl and pace, muttering among-st themselves. It seems Kilith did indeed explain the recruits' plight, though the beasts have yet to confirm Kilith's claim that they would never kill enslaved humans. My legs finally obey me, and I step backward as quietly but quickly as possible.

And straight into Merlin.

I manage to conceal my sound of surprise as I stumble, giving him a death glare that hopefully communicates the word I want to call him right now as I right myself. He rolls his eyes, seeming in much higher spirits than before, and pulls me towards better cover.

"The mad king is trying to find you," I say the moment we're far enough, heart still thumping wildly in my chest. "All along we thought it was Kanen, but it wasn't. He's just a piece in this game. We have to leave, get out of here—now."

Merlin looks at me like I've sprouted a tail. "Leave? What about the villagers?"

"Will can get them out, he'll manage," I say, and grab his wrist to tug him towards the outer fields. Back to the forest from where we came.

Merlin wrenches from my grip, looking angry now. We're behind a shed, animals snoring nearby. "What about Morgana, Arthur? What about her vision? People will die. _She's_ going to die. We have to be here, I have to find a way to stop all this from happening."

"And if you don't? If Uther dies, and Morgana too?" I grab his shoulders, trying to shake common sense into his brain. "You'll be captured, killed, experimented on, weaponized, and worse!"

Merlin's eyes, so close to mine, go soft, understanding. They're filled with empathy, and I don't know why. It scares me. I flinch my hands back, glaring at him. His expression doesn't change. Merlin steps forward, and I can't move when he puts gentle arms around me; I just stand there, stiffly. "I'm scared too," he says, barely loud enough to be heard.

I squeeze my eyes shut, throat tightening.

But he pulls away after a moment, saying, "Will is ready to start gathering. We'll have people go in two's and three's, spread it out over the next couple of hours. With any luck, we won't be spotted. It'll work out, I swear."

"I'm sorry about your father," I answer, because I can't agree with him about this. Because those are the only words that will come out.

Merlin's mouth pulls up, and it's the saddest kind of smile. "Not your fault."

"Stop saying that. _Stop_ ," I say, voice harsh. "It just makes it worse."

"I don't blame you, Arthur," Merlin insists, however, as if that's what I'm not understanding.

My eyes are starting to burn, and I blink back the moisture with a frustrated noise. "You _SHOULD_. Merlin, don't you get it? You should blame me. You should, you _should_ , you—" My voice cracks and I cut off, wrenching my face away from view when I can't stop the burning any longer. Tears blur my sight, unrelenting, unstoppable.

 _The next time I see a single tear there'll be five more lashes_. My father's voice penetrates my head, as loud and clear as ever. It's been so long since I needed the reminder he hasn't said it in the past few years. But I've never forgotten: a soldier doesn't cry. _A soldier does not allow himself weakness_.

I grit my teeth and force the tears back.

"Arthur."

Merlin is looking at me with such sorrow, I see upon turning back to him. Feeling sorry for me; and isn't there irony in that. "Let's go get Will then," I say, and start moving before anything else can be said.

By the time we get back my eyes have mercifully dried, and Will's grandmother is awake. She's being helped into her shawl by Will, despite her protests. "It's the middle of the night, William, what on earth—"

"There's an army coming, to battle Kanen. You can't stay," he's explaining as he goes to fetch her shoes, noticing us at the door. "Good," Will says to Merlin. "I've almost got Granny ready. She can get Simmons and then go—"

"Go where, what is going on?" The old woman interrupts.

"Head to the forest for cover. The caves would be even better," Merlin explains to her. "It's not safe to stay."

"Merlin?" She steps toward him, eyes wide. "We all thought Cenred had gotten you."

Merlin glances at me with apprehension; we've foolishly let another person see him. With the target on him ever growing, Kanen cannot realize Merlin is here.

"We've seen the army," I tell her, hoping to get this moving quickly. "Kanen, his men, and the dragons may be strong, but they're just a match for what's coming. You need to tell all the houses south of here to leave. Will and I can cover the rest of town."

It's impressive how quickly her mouth thins, head jerking in a quick nod before she ties her gray hair in a knot and leaves with a basket of food after telling Will, "I expect you to be there with me by dawn."

"Yes'm." He nods, out the door right after her.

Merlin makes to follow, raising an eyebrow when I put an arm in his path. "You don't happen to know how to magically make your face unrecognizable?" I say.

He sighs. "You know I don't."

"Exactly. Stay here. We can make a plan about what to do next once Will and I get everyone out."

"And if the dragons stop you?"

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "What difference would it make if you were there, then?"

"I could . . . talk to them, maybe. So far none of them have hurt me or threatened to," Merlin says, as if that proves anything. But Morgana did say Merlin would 'convince' the dragons to leave. I'd assumed more through a demonstration of power—flattening the area in a windstorm, like Merlin has been wont to do when in danger—not through actual words. Of course, that was before I even knew dragons would have the intelligence to speak.

"Or they could roast you alive," I counter anyway, and move towards the door. "Stay here. Please, Merlin." I wait at the threshold, cold air billowing in from behind me, until Merlin finally nods. Then I turn my back and shut the door behind me to follow Will. Telling myself what I saw glittering in Merlin's eyes, too much like defiance, was just a trick of the light.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh dear, what a crazy past few weeks. I'm putting these chapters into bigger chunks than I used to, though, so hopefully that slightly makes up for how long its been...Anyway, I've missed you guys. I'm hoping to finish up Recruit by the end of this month, so the end is (or should be) nigh! For Innate, the next installment, I'm thinking I'm going to edit and break up chapters before starting to post, just to make my life and yours easier. That way there's nothing to get in my way of regular updates! MWAHAHAHAH!**

 **catherine10: Hey! Yes I have, lol, didn't think about the parallels till now, that's funny. Glad you like the sound of it regardless :) hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for your comments as always!**


	44. Sound and Fury

**44\. Sound and Fury**

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Summary: _"You smell strange, little one. Like the sea—and the sky."_

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It takes less than I thought it would. Of course, considering the villagers have been forced under the likely tyrannical rule of Kanen and his bandits, then invaded by a hoard of dragons for who knows how many days—well, perhaps it shouldn't be surprising how quickly they take the initiative to leave.

The first door Will and I reach is to the home of a large family, and he does most of the talking. "There's an army coming in the morning to fight Kanen," he starts out with, and then quickly, "Everyone's running to hide in the forest. Pack some food and go— _hurry_!"

If anyone needs more assurance, I step in with a bit of fabrication but an urgency I don't need to fake. "I was traveling through, saw the army myself. A battle's coming, no doubt."

After that there's little protest. Will and I stop after about ten cottages; the rest will be harder. The rest, according to Will, are also inhabited by Kanen's men. Plus, the remaining twenty or so are clustered much closer together, around the village commons the dragons now inhabit.

"You going to make Merlin fight?" Will whispers through shivers where we hide, in the one-room cottage already evacuated. His voice is harsh, but there's an underlying hopefulness to it I recognize.

I let out a shaky laugh, slumping against the wall. "Not a matter of making him, actually. The idiot doesn't know how to keep away from danger. He goes looking."

Will clenches his fist, spine straightening. "You saying this is his fault?"

" _No_." I return his glare this time, frankly affronted by such an idea. "No. He's just stupid, just . . . brave," I realize aloud. "Braver than anyone I know."

Now that I've said it, the words hold in them more truth than everything else that makes up who Merlin is. _He is brave._ Brave enough to live, brave enough to befriend me, brave enough to forgive me. Brave enough to save his friends without a care for himself.

He is courage, strength and love.

And me. I am his adverse: fear, weakness, and hatred.

"Have any ideas on avoiding the bandits?" I ask when it's probably been long enough. The moon is high in the sky, and dawn will be upon us in probably less than four hours. Which is as long as I want to be away from Morgana, still hiding in the forest sick and alone. "Create a diversion? Draw out one person and have them get everyone out? They'd have to do it without waking any of his men."

Will's mouth twists, brow low as he considers. "I'd say the second. A diversion is too risky."

They're both too risky, really, but I nod anyway. "Right. Let's go."

I follow at his heels to the next cottage, slower and quieter the closer we get to the center of town. Will doesn't knock at the door we stop at, however; he opens it and slips inside, returning a minute later with a young man who's rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Will, what—? I don't understand ya, what're we—?" He blinks, scratching the back of his bedhead.

" _Shhhhh_. Stay quiet. You need to wake your wife and child, gather a bit of food, and head to the forest line south of the village. An army is coming to attack Ealdor from the north."

The man seems to waken at that, face blanching. "They're coming? To _Ealdor_?"

"They'll be here by noon tomorrow," I put in, "If not sooner. I saw them, came to warn you all."

He blinks, nods too many times. Will then whispers the most important detail: "Don't wake the men you're housing. They might stop us from going. Then tell Ellys and Rae's, and Farmer Gill's home. We've got to keep moving."

The man puts a hand out just as we turn to go. "Be safe yourselves," he says in a hushed but stern voice. Will nods, and the man releases him.

But we don't make it to the next house, which is just two away from the main pavilion. Instead I stop in my tracks, body freezing as my ears hear a familiar voice.

"Hullo. I need to speak with you all."

It's _Merlin_.

He didn't listen, the absolute idiot, and I hardly take time to notice the noise I make as I run towards his voice. I already know where he is.

There is a deep rumble, a laugh perhaps, before an answer. "You smell strange, little one. Like the sea—and the sky."

By then I've reached the edge of the clearing, can see what I was already imagining. There Merlin is, so small and insignificant where he stands, completely surrounded by dragons. I couldn't get through to him if I tried.

 _MERLIN._

He jolts, eyes immediately searching but not finding me where I am, in the nook of two houses. _Arthur, I've got this under control. Stay hidden._ Just then Will catches up to me, sees Merlin, and I have to nearly pin him down to stop him from running out there. I clamp a hand over his mouth when the boy goes still and opens it. He glares frostily as I shake my head in warning.

Meanwhile Merlin answers them. "That's what Kilith said as well, when I spoke with him."

The dark, green-eyed dragon I recognize as being called Aaleth cocks its head. "Is that so? And was it you who fed him lies about the rebel army, to stop us from this fight?"

"I told no lies," he answers. One of its great paws takes a step toward him, and he stumbles back—almost into the dragon behind him.

 _Merlin, they're going to eat you alive._

 _No, they're just trying to intimidate me. Stay where you are._

Merlin steadies himself, face still calm. "Uther has a way, a way that the sorceress Nimueh created, to control someone's magic. You've been fighting _slaves._ I know, I'm one of them."

The dragons glance between themselves. "Let me," the largest of them says finally, its scales pale and colorless under the moon. It lowers its head till it's level with Merlin, opening a mouth of large, sharp teeth. I gasp, too loudly.

But my intake is drowned by the harsh outtake of the dragon's breath. Breath, not fire, blowing against Merlin in almost-visible waves. The air suddenly has a charge to it, a sensation that makes my neck prickle. Will's eyes widen, and I let go of him to shake off the feeling, barely trusting he won't go run into the horde of dragons still.

He doesn't, thank the gods. We both watch as the large, pale dragon steps back and raises its head slowly. Somberly. "There is something dark in the boy. He is a warlock, yet he lacks the power to be one. I felt a spark of magic, but little more. There is an emptiness there, a hollowness inside him that feels unnatural."

Merlin nods, though his hands have clenched into fists. "It's true. There's an army of them, just like me, coming in the morning. Kilith must have told you."

"Yes. And Kanen's scouts have already let us know. But Kilith also said our lord was enslaved as well, which is false," the one called Aaleth says. "Highlord Balinor is king of Camelot. He is the one who sent us."

I blink, having never heard the mad king's actual name. But it appears he indeed has full stewardship over the dragons, as well as Camelot. It does not match Kilith's story; but the dragon had been locked in a cave for more than a decade. Perhaps its mind has addled over the years.

 _It doesn't matter,_ I tell Merlin _. Just explain they can't kill the guardians, not even Uther, and that the villagers need to escape. That's what's important right now._

Merlin finally finds me across the way then. Our eyes lock, and he lets out a breath before almost imperceptibly nodding. "Kilith may have been wrong about that, but Uther truly is binding sorcerers and their powers to his knights. If you kill one of the knights even, you would kill one of our kind. I've seen it."

The dragons pace and growl, the ground vibrating from the force of it. "So you demand we not fight, not take the chance to end this warlord, who campaigns against our lord and king? On your word, and the single proof of this emptiness inside you?" This comes from the smallest dragons, higher-voiced than the rest.

"No magical being would willingly invoke such a terrible state upon themselves," the large pale one interjects.

"You believe the child, Kieran?" Aaleth asks.

Merlin speaks before the large dragon can answer. "They wouldn't. And if you checked you would see every sorcerer in Uther's army is the same."

"We will need to drastically change our tactics, if we intend on not killing," Kieran says. The dragon's head is raised, high and authoritative.

All the others lower their heads, though the smallest dragon's nostrils snort, twin streams of smoke curling out. "On not winning, you mean?" it growls.

Aaleth moves toward Merlin again, green eyes glowing brighter as the dragon sniffs him. "The sea, earth and sky," it says, shaking its head. "Who is your father, young one?"

"I don't know," Merlin replies. The dragon hums in answer. "But I grew up in this village. All the people here will just add casualties. You need to let them leave, before the battle starts."

"Yes." The largest dragon nods, and then raises its head entirely up towards the night sky. After a deep breath Keiran lets out an earth-rumbling roar, shattering the relatively peaceful night.

 _Well, that woke up anything within a league of here_ , I think.

 _That's probably why he did it, I'd say,_ Merlin answers.

"We will let them leave, and so will Kanen," Kieran says to Merlin.

"Though we cannot promise anything else of the smelly man and his vermin," Aaleth says. The dark dragon lifts from the ground with a few flaps of its wings, and the rest excepting Kieran follow.

"I will let the smelly man know," Kieran nods with a smirk towards the structure behind Merlin—the largest one in the town, it looks like.

 _That's your cue to leave,_ I remind him _. Hurry, before Kanen sees you._

 _It's not like he'll recognize me as the one they're looking for_ , Merlin says, though he's already making his way quickly to us.

 _Better safe than sorry._

The second Merlin reaches us Will pulls him into a hug, pulling back quickly to say, "I thought you were toast out there, literally."

Merlin looks from him to me, eyes bright with adrenaline. "Me too, for a second."

Right about then is when the doors start opening, men coming out in their sleepwear that appear a bit too gruff-looking to be simple farmers. "Merlin, you go back to Will's house—we'll meet you there real soon, I think. Now that we aren't sneaking this shouldn't take too long," I tell him.

Just then we hear Kieran speak, loud and commanding, penetrating every wall as the dragon tells all villagers to leave for the battle coming.

Merlin looks a little smug as he shrugs. "Looks like that's not necessary."

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face in relief. "Now all we need is to keep my father safe, and this horrible nightmare of Morgana's will finally be over. I'm ready to be back at Camp."

Villagers are tentatively coming out, now, glancing at the large dragon who remains at the center of town before quickly beginning to move. Will, who looks more somber now than last I looked at him, says, "I'll . . . check the houses around. Yeah. Make sure everyone's heard. You two should start moving."

I would argue, but the image of a shivering, frightened Morgana comes to mind. "He's right. Come on." I motion to Merlin, and he gives a reassuring nod to Will before following; we fall into step beside each other.

 _You think this was enough?_ He glances at me, brow furrowed.

I shake my head. _I don't know. She said she saw death and blood everywhere, that the dragons would set the whole village on fire. That at least shouldn't happen._ Not to mention the person whose eyes Morgana saw through will die, or that Merlin is supposed to convince the dragons to _leave_ , not just pacify them. There's little we can do right now to change or ensure such things.

 _And Uther's death?_

 _I don't know. What do you think?_

Merlin doesn't answer for a while. There's a steady stream of people, heading for the southern border of trees. We walk through the barren fields from earlier, though not in exactly the same direction. Morgana is further east.

 _His death is inevitable, Arthur. But I hope, I truly do, that he does not die tomorrow._

There is no reassurance in the words, but I can tell Merlin is at least sincere in them. For Morgana's sake, of course. I nod, not answering, and we walk the rest of the distance in silence.

Morgana is a little harder to find without anything but the stars and the setting moon to illuminate our old path. We almost find her by accident, checking every tree that seems as big as the one I remember leaving her against until I nearly step on her.

"Morgana!"

She blinks dull eyes up at me, hopefully just waking from sleep. I immediately check her forehead, finding it feverish but perhaps a bit less so than the last time. "Arthur?"

"We're back," I tell her needlessly, putting my hands against her sweaty neck. She shivers. "I'm so sorry I had to leave, we're back now. Are you feeling hot?"

Morgana shakes her head where it leans against the tree trunk. "No, cold."

"Okay, here, let me fix that," I say, and sit down next to her so I can pull the girl's body over my legs, wrap my arms around hers. I check her hands, wincing to see the webbing lines marring her skin.

"S'not as bad, really," she says, letting me examine them. But it still doesn't look good.

 _Arthur_ , Merlin says in my head. He's crouched next to us, a look in his eye I can't decipher. _Remember what you did before?_

 _Sorry?_

 _Before, when we found Morgana like this. You held her hands, remember? And then she felt better?_

I do, though I'm hesitant to believe whatever that was will help again. Still I grasp her hands in mine, squeezing a little.

Merlin shakes his head. _Not like that. Like you do when you aliesan my magic back to me._

I change position, lace my fingers between each of Morgana's. The moment our palms fully meet a shock runs up my arms, a current subtle but familiar now that I'm really paying attention.

Morgana's body jerks in my arms, hands tightening around mine. Her eyes open wider, clearer, and she gasps in a deep breath.

 _What_ was _that, Merlin?_ I look back at Merlin, eyes widening.

He's staring at her rapidly-changing hands, deep in thought. _I . . . I don't know._

Morgana lets go, clutching her head with hands that are now clear of any mark. "Strange," she whispers, and then looks up at me suddenly, as if realizing where she is. "What happened?"

"Maybe because Arthur shares blood with your guardian," Merlin starts, "there might be some kind of connection. Have you seen such a thing happen before?"

She shakes her head. "No. Nothing like that." Then Morgana lets out a shaky breath, looking between us. "Now tell me how you've managed."

I explain our finding Will, the revelation of Kanen under orders from Camelot, and our successful exodus of the villagers; with help from Merlin, who takes over when he recounts his conversation with the dragons.

"So perhaps some of your vision can be avoided, at least concerning the dragons," I finish with a hesitant smile.

"Oh no! I should have given these to you earlier," Morgana says, and reaches into one of the knapsacks we left with her. I watch in confusion as she pulls out what looks like a bundle of cloth, handing one to each of us.

Upon closer inspection it seems to be a cloak, like the ones the knights wear, but different somehow. "Uther has had Nimueh and I working on it, and I think these should work. They'll be better than nothing anyway."

"What kind of material is this?" Merlin asks, feeling it between his fingers.

"It's wool; but we've enchanted it to be even more repellent. To flame, that is," Morgana explains, and pulls out another for herself. "They'll be too long for us, as these were meant for full-grown knights, but I doubt Uther will be around much longer to punish me for it."

"Not if we have anything to do with it," I remind her. "And with the dragons pacified they won't be necessary for that. Still, it'll be warmer."

Merlin nods, and we both stand to pull it around our shoulders. An embarrassing length of the fabric still rests on the forest floor. "Are you alright to walk again?" I ask.

Morgana nods, and I help her up, not supporting her weight as much this time. "We can find the villagers and stay with them until it's near time for the battle," Merlin adds, however, and it makes Morgana stop in her tracks.

"I will not be going," she says, glancing back and forth at both of us. Taller, though just as skinny as Merlin. "Not to the battle. I will not be compelled to save my slaver, no matter what it means for me."

 _Then we go in her place_ , Merlin says, eyes locking with mine. I nod.

We move west, slowly, towards where Merlin and I saw the people walking.

By the time we get there the sky is perceptibly lighter, a dark grey rather than a black midnight. The stars have faded. I see first the village children, who seem to be in the midst of a battle enactment as they run in the distance. Fighting with sticks and loud voices.

 _Remember the first time I kept beating you at bladder ball?_ Merlin's voice chimes in my head, fond-sounding.

It's not so fond a memory in my opinion, but I work to smile. _That's not how I remember it_ , I say, watching them see us and stop their play. Some not much younger than me, I think.

 _I suppose last time you redeemed yourself._

Two adults appear when we reach them, probably summoned by one of the children, and both women are in similar states of shock. Eyes glued on Merlin.

"Hunith's been so worried," and "You poor thing, where on earth-?" and "Are any of you hungry?" and other variations are all we hear for the next hour as the entire village welcomes Merlin back. Luckily they aren't asking too much about where he's been, too concerned about the admittedly poor look of him, Morgana and I. We haven't exactly had the easiest past twenty four hours.

I'm sat down with a piece of chewy bread and blanket over my cloak, given promises of hot soup and tea as they get a fire going. I'm too tired to protest, even when I know how quickly this kindness would be retracted the moment they knew. Merlin ends up falling asleep after the soup, as does Morgana, and I'm a bit jealous as I watch the sky slowly lighten. But someone has to stay awake so we don't miss the battle.

It's not just that, though. I'm not sure if I could sleep, not when the hot soup doesn't fill up whatever's aching inside me. It's definitely physical, but I can't identify the source. Just a tugging, draining sensation in my chest, like something important inside me is leaking.

I ignore it.

"Arthur?"

The sun is just starting to rise, and I squint my eyes as I turn to see Will approaching. 'Does your granny know you're back?" I ask, and he nods.

He glances around, obviously looking for someone. "Everyone left, too. I made sure."

"Merlin's asleep, over there," I say, and nudge my head to his sleeping form beside the fire.

Will lets out a breath of relief. "Good. Listen . . ." He stops, brow furrowed, and licks his lips before continuing. "I need to show you something."

I raise a brow. "What is it?"

"Not here." Will shakes his head, motioning for me to follow him. I frown but slip off the blanket, wondering what it might be.

"Alright," I agree, curious, and stay at his heels as we start walking. Will doesn't say anything else. "If it's the caves, I've already seen those," I make mention a few minutes later, more to break the silence than anything. I can tell we aren't heading in that direction. He's leading me further into the forest, though, so there's little other guess I have.

Will shakes his head, then glances up nervously before pressing on. We go deeper into the forest, the thick brush less impeding as time wears on. I watch him ahead of me, the tense hunch of his shoulders, the clenching and un-clenching of his hands. Something is up. "Really, Will, what is it?" I ask, and stop.

He stops as well, glances up at the trees again before answering. "Did you meet Hunith, before you took Merlin away?"

I take a step back, confused by his stony expression. "No. Why? Why are we here?"

He wrings his hands, looks down at them, looks back up. "If you'd met her, maybe you'd understand a bit better. Maybe. But she asked me to look out for Merlin, keep an eye on him. I didn't realize fully at the time, why. Realized that too late."

I stare at him, wondering if he's about to fight me. Me, with a sword, against his what? Fists?

Will continues, chin trembling a bit now. "But I promised and I failed. I won't fail again. If that means . . . if that means doing what must be done, I will. For Merlin."

He glances up one more time, just behind me, and his eyes widen a little. This time I turn and do as well—and realize it wasn't the trees he'd been checking, but the skies. In one fell swoop a dragon has me caught in its claws, digging into my shoulders as it soars back upward.

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 **A/N: Hello again! I'm so excited I'm between jobs right now, about a week before my old school job resumes, so I can stop by a computer lab whenever I like! Working on the second installment, almost done with it (I think?) unless I decide not to split this story up into three parts.**

 **Fun fact, chapter title is from a fav Shakespeare quote! And it's relevant, considering you guys probably have no idea what all this madness signified. I didn't want to break it up any smaller though and have Arthur get swooped up by a dragon in the middle of a chapter! That would be a wasted opportunity. Plus I'm really ready to be done with Recruit.**

 **Thanks for reading friends! Two or three chapters left :)**

 **catherine10: Woohoo! Yay for OCs that readers like! That makes me very happy, so thanks for letting me know. Hope you enjoyed this installment. Stay awesome!**


	45. My Son

**Okay, so I forgot to mention this in my last A/N, but want to warn that this chapter features torture and slightly gruesome death. It DOES kind of basically have the climax of the story in it, so obviously violence in a battle is inevitable. But torture does happen as well! You have been warned.**

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45\. My Son

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Summary: _Uther Pendragon, warlord of southern Camelot and commander of his own magical army, walks across the remaining frozen field to his death, for a son he can hardly stand to look at._

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I'm being taken back to Ealdor.

At least it appears so, judging by the direction the dragon is taking me. It's the smallest, angriest of the beasts from earlier. My new cloak is billowing, dragging against the wind, and the dragon's talons dig in deeper as it beats its wings harder.

 _Merlin, Merlin wake up, a dragon got me, it grabbed me, Merlin . . ._ I try for a minute, jaw chattering as all heat from the soup is stripped from me. The air bites at my skin as it whirls past, so much that my hands and ears go completely numb. Merlin doesn't answer. What could he do anyway? My life is not in immediate peril, and he could not easily transport himself to me in the clouds.

Whatever fate awaits me when we land, I'd rather face it than be up here a second longer.

The small dragon circles above the village, landing slowly. There are men waiting in the center of the town. When the beast finally gets close to the ground I'm dropped. The pain of being released from the claws makes me gasp, red hot where the rest of me is freezing, as my feet hit the ground. They immediately buckle, and I slump to my knees, dizzy from the leftover vertigo. My stomach turns as large, rough hands haul me back up and forward.

I blink and am able to somewhat get my bearings in what appears to be the biggest single room in Ealdor. It's been cleared, with nothing but a table pushed to the side for furnishings. Not very large, per say, but at least the size of my father's chambers. I flinch from such a comparison, trying to steady my breathing as I take in the men present in the room: two to my left, who appear to be the ones who half-dragged me here; one on my right, who has confiscated my sword; and two just ahead. All gruff, wild-looking men who don't appear to be used to the walls that surround them.

But I bite back a gasp as one of the two ahead approach, and I recognize him. Black-beard, as I'd dubbed him, back at the camp Merlin leveled to the ground. He had been the leader, though his actual name escapes me now. It's hard to concentrate, given his distracting, murderous glare.

"This boy's one of 'em!" he roars, obviously recognizing me as well, and points a thick finger. "His little slave was the one who killed my men." Blackbeard says it through dirty, gritted teeth, addressing his companion.

"Even better then," his companion says. The other man is older, grayer, but all the more menacing with a face that is marred by a grisly scar. It cuts down his brow and across his cheek, worn like a badge.

Kanen, I can guess; the only face that could fit the villain I've only heard of till now.

He approaches, and I suddenly wish I was no longer on my knees. "But are you Uther's son, as the other child warned us," he says, looking me up and down with a smirk. I don't think he's expecting an answer.

His gray eyes flick to his man on my right, an unspoken order, and the ruffian wastes no time approaching and grabbing both my wrists. I struggle, though my hands being tied would make little difference right now, before I realize what he's actually doing. My sleeves are ripped back, tell-tale lines etching up my arms in their intricate pattern. Kanen smiles.

"Listen carefully boy," he says, crouching down on my level with a glint in his eye. His breath smells like acid. "You're going to call your little sorcerer here, right now, and I won't kill you. I won't harm a hair on your head."

I shake my head mutely; he cocks his head. "Do you not understand, little one? We need your slave, not you. You can come out of this with your life. But only if you do as I say."

"I—I can't," I say, the words coming out terrified. I let them. "I can't call to him, he has no magic to hear me, there's no way to make him come—"

"I've heard you chant your words before, boy, don't think I forgot," Black-beard seethes, moving around Kanen to get in my face. "You don't need him here. You don't need him awake, as far as I saw."

I duck my head and shake it again, trying to lean away. I flinch instead, as I'm grabbed from behind. Two hands, one on my elbow and the other around my wrist, grip tight before extending my right arm back behind me. I turn, instinctively trying to pull away, but the ruffian only grips harder.

Kanen laughs. "Our dragon friend is the one that caught you, but it was your young friend who told us about you in the first place. Uther's own son, waltzing into the village just hours before his father's attack! Not a gift to turn my nose up at. But I could not have imagined a blessing like this. The king will be very pleased, I think. In fact, I think a shiny new title for myself will be in order, once I bring him your father's head."

He nods at the man behind me, who twists both his hands in opposing directions. I yell, scratching at his skin with my other hand. A solid kick to my ribs stuns the breath from me, however, forcing me still as Kanen says, "Call your slave."

I could.

"I can't," I say between harsh breaths, and Kanen nods at the man again.

All I can think as he twists, as I scream and a bone snaps, is that my father was right after all: the lashes of a whip puts all other pain into perspective. Lashes hurt the body, the lungs, the heart, nothing like the sharp pain that this creates; bearable.

The man lets go, lets me cradle my obtuse fore-arm into my chest as I curl forward.

Kanen stands before he speaks down at me. "I believe you," he says, and I glance up at him to see his ice-cold satisfaction. I glare back, glad that for once my eyes are entirely dry. "But it does not matter, after all. We will have your sorcerer. The king wants him, you see, has wanted him ever since the boy's mother told King Balinor about his existence. About his father, who could use power outside the claim as well. Balinor tried to help the man, apparently, but he died from the experiments."

My face drains of blood, and Kanen must see, as he looks pleased. "Oh yes. And today, _your_ father will come here and surrender. He will kneel before me, and I will behead him. Do you know why, little master?" His hand lashes out, grabs at my broken arm before I can stop him and squeezes. Over my screaming I still hear him say, "Because of you."

I'm not aware of too much that happens, in the minutes that follow. I'm half-towed, half-dragged again, up the stairs and tied to a wooden beam. I hear laughter, voices, conversations, but can't make out words. A stabbing pain in my arm is all that grounds me to the present, and even then the waves of pain at times are too strong, making me dizzy. At the least it distracts from the numb cold in my limbs, in the ever-present-now tug in my chest. I blink, and the tiny window on the wall opposite has gotten brighter; I blink again and there is a white sheen of clouds, overlaying the sky.

I could have said more. Told them killing me would kill Merlin, though they probably never planned to actually go through with the threat if I am Kanen's leverage. But I could have said something, told them Merlin drowned in a river like he almost did. Convinced them that Uther would not surrender for me, that I was useless to them.

It might actually be true.

But being useless would have meant being dead. And even if that is my fate, once we are taken to Camelot and the mad king tries to rip and tear my soul, it cannot be Merlin's.

 _ARTHUR. Arthur, can you hear me? By the Gods, please answer, please, Arthur, can you-_

 _Merlin._

I blink my eyes open, realizing they were shut, and for a moment get disoriented by the fact Merlin is not in my face, with the way he is yelling. Until I realize where his voice is coming from.

 _ARTHUR! Are you alright? Where did you go, what happened? Where are you right now, I can still use my magic and_ —

 _NO_ , I interrupt again, and try to rein in my fear. Try to think of what to say, to keep him where he is. _I'm alright, not in any danger. Stay where you are._

I can feel his confusion more than hear it as he answers, _Why did you run off like that? I asked everyone, no one knew where you went. I was afraid, for a second. I thought maybe_ —

 _I wouldn't go that far, I wouldn't endanger you like that,_ I assure him.

 _No, not that, you idiot, I mean I was afraid. That something happened. Now where are you?_

I frown, knowing this is the one thing I can't answer. _I'm alright. Is Morgana_ — _?_

 _She's feeling almost like her normal self, I think. Uther must be close._

I swallow, remembering Kanen's promise. _Good_ , I say anyway, hoping it sounds to him like relief.

But my mind is running in loops, quickly realizing there is no way to win. If Merlin tries to save me and is captured as well, I lose everything. If I don't tell him where to come, my father's life and Morgana's will still be forfeit. If he manages to get us out in time, we will have to run immediately, not ensure Uther's safety. So regardless of what I choose, I lose Morgana.

Maybe she knew that all along.

 _Where are you, Arthur?_

Maybe fate has us all in its choke-hold, just waiting out its final, bone-crushing squeeze.

 _Where are you?_

 _I'm in Ealdor_ , I respond, hating my choice. My chest all-at-once lurches, breath gusting out, which I realize means he's transported himself. I suddenly feel how different the connection feels, so much lighter, now that he is close.

 _Where?_

 _Listen to me before I tell you: we have to run, go as far as you can get us. Kanen has me, he's trying to use me as ammunition against my father and he definitely wants to capture you for the mad king. If he wins_ —

 _Arthur, he won't win. The dragons aren't fighting anymore, remember? He doesn't realize it, but he has no weapon against the recruits that Uther is coming with, their power. It'll be the unequal fight your father assumed it would be. Now tell me where you are._

 _We can't assume that anymore; a dragon was the one that grabbed me, Merlin, plucked me out of the forest into Kanen's hands. I don't think we can trust_ —

 _What? How? How did a dragon know you were the son of Uther?_

I struggle to dam my thoughts in time, to hold back what I almost say. _I don't know._

 _Yes you do, what are you not_ —

"It's time," a voice says, and I blink my eyes back in focus in time to see Black-beard looking down at me. He unties the rope around my chest quickly, hauling me up by my bad arm. I hiss in pain.

— _Arthur, Arthur, TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE, what are they doing, you're in pain_ —

 _I think my father is almost here,_ I tell him as I'm walked down the stairs to a room of more ugly men. They're dressed in chain link and mismatched pieces of armour, a few with all but helmets and one with only shin guards. Kanen wears the most, a large cloak trimmed in black fur adorning his shoulders. He leans against the table, sharpening an ax with a whet stone, and grins when he sees me.

"Perfect for your father, wouldn't you say?" he says, flipping the handle in his hand once. I look away.

I'm marched outside, and I quickly tell Merlin, _It's too late_ , as I see the distant army marching in the open field ahead. Kanen takes over for Black-beard, one hand on the unbroken part of my arm and the other resting the end of his ax against my jugular.

"Keep moving," he says with sour breath, and I pull myself from my frozen state to put one foot in front of the other.

 _They're here,_ Merlin confirms, as I can't already see. I dart my eyes around, wondering if he's close. _But it's not too late. If your father surrenders, I'll just-_

 _Stop Kanen, with-what? Right now all you can do is make silly blue lights, transport, and 'free.'_

 _Then I'll get to you. And then I'll kill him._

I gulp, and the ax scrapes against my adam's apple. It's hard not to hear in these words the same tone as Merlin's offer, in the dark of our tent, to kill Lord Uther if I let him. Except now he offers to save him, if only for Morgana's sake.

The ruffians form loose rows, though Kanen pushes me faster till we march at the front of them. We reach the edge of the village and stop; they probably will want to use the houses to their advantage, providing cover as they shoot arrows at the open field. Sorcerers still die by arrow wounds, after all.

My stomach plummets as I notice the small dragon that plucked me from the air, sitting on the top of one of the last houses with smoking nostrils. Its scales are a midnight red, I can see in the sunlight. Joining in the fight, it would seem, though the rest of the dragons appear to be missing. It watches as the line of red knights gets steadily closer, most on horse back, and finally I make out Uther at the front. And the small figure walking next to his horse, who must be Nimueh.

Kanen's hold tightens, and then I see: my father has recognized me. His face is expressionless, but he jumps from his horse and calls the procession to a halt. He turns back, looks at Kanen and I, and says nothing. Just waits.

Kanen clears his throat, rather awkwardly, and calls out: "Uther Pendragon! What a delight to meet at last! I've just barely gotten acquainted with this fine son of yours. Didn't get his looks from you, I see!"

"Kanen," Uther says back, and his voice rings out low and true. "Let him go and I might spare your life."

Kanen sneers, though he moves his face directly behind me before yelling, "It's his life that is in danger! Attack us, and I will gut him."

I feel that tugging sensation in my chest stronger than ever, and it's easy to guess why. Merlin must be calling for his magic, must have claim marks burning brightly as he tries to get through the claim. I wish I knew how to let him, again.

Stop, I say though, Stop before you exhaust yourself.

I can't get close, Arthur! I can't get close!

You don't need to, yet, I say as I watch my father stand there, looking at me. I'm not in any danger, it was just a threat. If he kills me, he won't get you.

"What do you want, Kanen," Uther finally speaks, loud and fierce as a thunderclap.

"I want your surrender!" Kanen shouts back. "Walk over here, lay your sword at my feet, and your son will not die."

Uther does not reply, frowning. Nimueh, however, steps forward with a manical look of glee. She raises her hand, begins to speak, and-

Clutches her chest, gasping before looking at Uther in utter disbelief. He sheathed whatever powers he has given her, I guess by the quick way he shut his eyes for a moment. My heart doesn't know whether to swoop or sink at the implications.

Uther steps forward, and then again, and his men rest uneasily on their horses. "I will surrender, Kanen," he says as he takes another step, and pulls out his sword to lay across both palms. "I will surrender, and you will not harm my son."

My heart stills, skipping at least a couple beats as I try to wrap my head around what he just called me. My son, as if I am his to care for. As if I am important, have ever been important, more than a weak boy he could not perfectly train into a soldier.

As if it was him, who crafted me my first wooden sword, who chased me through camp, who ruffled my hair and fondly called me son.

But still, Uther Pendragon, warlord of southern Camelot and commander of his own magical army, walks across the remaining frozen field to his death, for a son he can hardly stand to look at.

Nimueh keeps at his heels, her expression grim. At least his face stays impassive, emotionless and therefore unexpectant of any emotion to show on my own face. I haven't a clue what expression I have, much less what I should have. I simply watch numbly as he and his recruit approach, Uther stopping them a few paces in front of Kanen and I with his sword still out.

Kanen's motions at a few of his men with his chin, who all walk over to Uther warily before quickly relieving him of his sword. After that they get braver, two of them grabbing an arm each to pull behind his back. One kicks him in the back of his leg, and he drops to a knee. Still emotionless, still as calm as ever with the four men surrounding him.

"Now let him go, Kanen," Uther says, jerking his head towards Nimueh. She looks at me, nods steadily. And then the hand on my upper arm lowers, latching on to my broken bone. Kanen laughs as I cry out, wrenching forward and cutting myself a little on the sharp blade of the axe.

Uther jerks in his hold. His eyes betray something, finally: fear.

Kanen releases me after a torturous moment, and I sink to the ground, clutching my throbbing limb. The bone's broken through the skin. My stomach flips with nausea, eyes blinking in and out of focus at the sight before I force myself to look away, to breathe. For one moment, all is quiet, everyone hushed as Kanen walks toward Uther's bowed form.

In the next, Nimueh flings her body towards her master from the back, realizing what is about to happen.

In the next two of the men rip her away, too quickly for her to touch his hands held behind him, and she screams like a wounded animal.

In the last, Kanen stops in front of my father, raising his axe.

Then he is lit on fire.

Kanen screams, dropping his axe, entire body consumed in flame. An entire wave of it sears through him, towards my father and his captors, and then another just behind us. Shouts give way to screams as a great, shining-sapphire-dragon weaves through the air, raining fire on all below. My heart flips with sudden, tentative hope.

But in one flap of its wings the beast soars toward the other army, and breathes billows of fire down on them as well.

More screams.

"Arthur! ARTHUR! Arthur, where are—!" I turn to see Merlin, who cuts off as he spots me as well: still on the ground, clutching my useless arm. He makes to grab me, to pull me up and away, but I wrench back.

"Check on my father, hurry!" I rasp, voice sore from screaming. Everyone around us is scattering, shouting, and I hear the tell-tale flap of wings as I point toward where Uther must be. Merlin hesitates, then quickly pulls my hood over my head.

"Stay down," he orders, and runs in that direction. I quickly regret sending him however; the dragon is circling back, herding Uther's remaining army towards the village, and though its face is twisted almost un-recognizably, the features look much too like the dragon Kilith.

"MERLIN GET DOWN!" I scream, both outwardly and internally as the dragon swoops lower and opens its mouth. Merlin drops to the ground just as a gust of fire bursts from Kilith's mouth. I barely drop my head in time as it rolls over me, my right cheek smarting with a burn. But the cloak miraculously stays cool, saving me from most of it.

A second later I hear the dragon move on, and more screams from the army running towards the village. "Merlin!" I say, staggering to my feet with my one good hand, and I don't see him at first. My heart beats erratically, too fast to think, and I stumble through the fallen until I see the dark cloak. Blood on snow.

Merlin whips it off, exposing him and Uther. I stare in shock, unsure of what I'm looking at. My father's face is mangled, one side of it almost completely burnt off. Not dead, it would seem, like Kanen, but not much alive either.

Merlin meanwhile looks like he hasn't slept in days; his eyes are bloodshot and sunk in dark circles, pale and white-lipped. Using the transport spell too much, which has clearly drained him of most energy. "How far can you take us?" I ask, and kneel to grab his shoulder with my good arm.

He looks down at me, then at Uther, then at the sky. The rest of the dragons are now flying overhead too, though they seem to be trying to subdue their brother. "Maybe inside one of the houses. I—I'll try," he starts, and takes a shaky breath before closing his eyes. The flap of wings gets louder, and I squeeze his shoulder as he whispers the right words.

I feel a tug, then nothing. After a moment I open my eyes, still surrounded in the stink of burnt flesh, and Uther's army that have begun to run past towards shelter. Merlin and my father are gone, though, so it worked at least part-way.

I don't think of how little good that will do until I turn and see Kilith, swooping down to reach just for me.

"Arthur, RUN!" I hear, and Merlin must have started running right away, is still trying to make it in time. He's trying to save his own life, but it's not enough. The other dragons will not be there in time. Merlin will not make it in time. Kilith lands in front of me with eyes that are no longer gold-irised, but entirely filled with a glowing blue, and I know they will be the last thing I see.

I stumble to my feet again, watch the final second pass, tell Merlin, _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so_ —

But then it's not my body that is snatched into its jaws, but another small one that moves in front of me, just in time to take my place. The dragon flips its head and lets go, roaring, before going back to grab me, but it's enough.

Merlin reaches me with Kanen's ax under his arm, I link my hands with his, I scream, _KILL_ , and he yells the words, " _Bregdan anweald gafeluc!_ " before throwing it.

The sword implants in the dragon's right breast, and the creature sinks.

I blink more than once, seeing less each time, and then sink to the ground myself.

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 **A/N: Surprise dragon attack! AGAIN! Haha. So 'Recruit' is reaching its conclusion quite soon! I don't know if I'll split up what's left or just post it as one big chapter again, so we'll see. But one or two updates left. That's so crazy!**

 **I've only been able to do my homework at a library computer, so unfortunately this fic did not get completed in August. Sad day. BUT I finally got a laptop yesterday, so (after doing my homework the past twenty four hours) I immediately started writing again and then editing this chapter. It looks like there's probably just going to be a sequel to this story, not a series of three...because I just wrote the climax of 'Innate' and am pretty much done! It's going to need a LOT of editing still though, lol.**

 **Thanks for reading friends :)**


	46. Unless

**46\. Unless**

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Summary: _There is a better way to atone: to look to the future, not the single path I've already walked. It is already behind me. It is time to stop looking back._

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Pain is what wakes me. Not from my numb, broken arm, or the burn on my face, but an ache in my chest that drags me back into consciousness on the bloody, frozen field. Little time seems to have passed; the dragon lays on the ground, still, and Merlin is suddenly blocking the sky in front of me. He looks heartbroken, face pinched.

"It hurts," I gasp, and his eyes widen.

"Your arm, I can—"

"No, Merlin, it hurts," and I manage to lift my uninjured arm, weakly wave at the spot, deep beneath my sternum. Merlin quickly unties my red cloak, ripping the thick cloth of the shirt underneath to expose my pale chest to the winter air. I immediately shiver, looking down at the still-healing burn he touches hesitantly, the burst of red skin flaring out from where the claim lines connect. No added injury; on the surface at least.

"Nimueh's having the injured put in the same room, I'll get someone," he says anyway, pulling away.

"Merlin," I say and grab his wrist. He stops, looks at me. Face too pinched, echoing waves of something that feels like hopelessness. Something's wrong. _Who stepped in front of me. What happened._

He sucks in a breath, red eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

But then Leon is there, and two other knights, who quickly push Merlin aside to carry me back to Kanen's headquarters. Quarters for the wounded and dying now, all of them Lord Uther's men. I doubt they would make room for the ruffians, if there are any left to be tended to.

They lay me down on a blanket, one of the knights quickly forming a splint for my arm till a recruit can look at it. Leon tells me to get some rest before quickly turning to the lying form on my left. Freya, I recognize, and her arms are wrapped in bandages. Leon takes her hand, gives her a sip of water. I look away.

But on my right is another sight I can hardly look at. Will, body covered in a blanket. His eyes are open, but listless, flickering around him in a daze. Too young, too brave. I remember the body, in front of mine, just in time. It must have been him.

Merlin all but confirms my fears as he enters the packed room, immediately kneeling between us both. His face is ashen, exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Merlin," I say, because it is my fault. Will would have never put himself in my path, if it didn't mean saving Merlin as well.

For once, he just nods, puts a hand on Will's forehead. The boy turns his head, tries to find Merlin's face with his eyes. "Safe now," he murmurs, grinning weakly. "Knew there was a way. S-sorry for . . . bein' an idiot, before that."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Merlin says, shaking his head with a heavy smile. He grips one of Will's hands in both of his.

Will huffs a laugh, grimaces, then flicks his head at me as he says, "He'll tell you different. But, least now you can . . . you, you have a chance still. Promise me."

"Will, you—"

"Promise you'll try, find a way," he says in one breath, eyes screwing shut in pain. But then they wrench open, too bright, and Merlin starts crying.

"Promise, I promise," he sobs.

Will's breathing gets easier then, slower. "Nice to see you again," he says with the ghost of a grin, too quiet and too calm.

Merlin laughs wetly. "Yeah, you too."

"Merlin . . ." he starts, and his lips only form the next word. Then Will's eyes flutter, his chest hitches, and his body lets out a final sigh.

Merlin stares. Maybe he's waiting for an inhale; maybe he's just frozen.

"DRAGONS! All to arms, dragons!" Somebody opens the door to shout, and I whip my head to see the landing of the first through the doorway. Kieran, the large pale one, looking very grave as knights and their recruits rush out to meet it. The other dragons follow.

Merlin immediately flashes to his feet, though I manage to catch the hem of his trousers before he can run.

"Merlin," I start, and he looks down, eyes terrifyingly blank as he shakes his head and wrenches from my grip. " _Stop_ , wait—!" I cry, and stumble to my feet again to follow him into the fire.

I'm too far behind, too slow to catch up as Merlin runs or stop him before he stands between Lord Uther's army and a host of dragons. "YOU SWORE!" he yells up at them, and Kieran takes a step back. "You promised not to fight!"

"Recruit, stand back—!"

"Merlin, stop—"

"And we did not," Kieran bites back in a thunderous voice, lips pulled back to show teeth. The beast looks surprisingly agitated. "We did not, but our lord and king has more power. Kilith had no choice."

The legion of knights and recruits are still as stone, all in awe of hearing a dragon speak. "We tried to stop him, we tried," Aaleth the dragon adds. "But more of the smelly man's men are dead than yours. So in the end—"

The beast never finishes. Instead every dragon there flinches violently when Merlin cuts her off.

" _Leave_."

It's certainly not the harshest I've heard Merlin's voice be, or the firmest, or the loudest. But there is something in it, something strong enough to make the dragons stomp their feet, wings twitching, necks rolling like restless horses. Then Kieran snarls, steps closer to Merlin, and bows its great head before pushing off into the sky. The other four dragons quickly follow.

The burning village is silent.

In the hours that follow all recruits are sent to the infirmary to help with healing. A quiet woman holds my broken arm delicately, whispering words that make my stomach roll as bone knits back together. Freya is given a salve for her burned arms, Uther is being attended to by every recruit with a drop of energy left while Nimueh flits around him, useless. I lay down, stare at the empty spot next to me where Will used to be, and don't sleep.

More than 48 hours since I had a decent rest, and I can't force my eyes shut.

I aliesan Merlin the ability to heal, ignore the wrenching hurt, like a pulled muscle, that immediately follows. Merlin moves around the room of injured silently, with a continuous track of tears running down his cheeks. I'm not sure if he notices they're there. Regardless, he still smiles at some of the people he heals, murmurs comforting words I can't hear, and it feels wrong.

I've just murdered his best friend, and Merlin brings me a ration of bread and meat without so much as a glare in his eye.

The villagers are back before dusk, and Sir Jethro immediately orders them to give quarter to the knights in whichever houses have not burnt down. Morgana returns with them, her smile small but real. That is at least one thing that can be said: she is alive.

I leave the room of wounded on weak legs, that night, breathing in icy air that pleasantly numbs my aching heart. It's easy to forget, caught up in all the goings of the past two days, that there will be a return journey. But for a second I try to imagine it, Merlin and I passing first through the outer ring of sentries, the tents of injured or training soldiers, and then further to the Inner Ring. More lessons with Nimueh, more fear of my father, more whispering in our tent in the case someone hears.

My mind flashes to Merlin, the strange gravity to his voice as he ordered the dragons leave, and the thought comes: _unless_.

A small flare of fire distracts me, perhaps the last of the dragon's flames flickering out in the cold night. But then I hear a sniffle, and then another, and I move around the smoldering remains of cottage to see Merlin standing in front of a tiny pyre. It's immediately clear who's burning.

He wipes his nose as I approach, gaze flicking to me then back at the fire. "Apparently my balls of light are flammable," Merlin says, and his eyes reflect the golden flames. Then he whispers, "Leoht," a small globe appearing and floating toward the pyre. I feel a twinge in my chest, eyes momentarily going hazy, but I blink the blur away. The fire leaps higher at its touch.

"Good," I say, though my voice betrays my discomfort.

Merlin frowns at me, the light disappearing. "What's wrong?" I shake my head, moving to go, but Merlin grabs me by my cloak. "You're hurting, I can feel it. You said earlier, your chest. What's wrong?"

I open my mouth to respond, but my knees buckle. It's embarrassing, being in pain in front of the funeral pyre of the boy I killed. Like I have any right. But still my lungs are gasping for air, the hurt in my chest so deep it feels connected to my soul; and that's when I finally realize.

"The claim," I whisper out loud, hearing the truth in my voice.

"What about it?" Merlin says, kneeling in front of me.

I shake my head, smiling without humor. How sick, how twisted. "The claim wants your magic back," I say, knowing I'm right. "It's been nagging at me more and more, the past few weeks, and I just thought . . . I didn't realize. I haven't taken it away in such a long time."

Not since _YOU CANNOT DIE, YOU WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES_ , _YOU_ HAVE TO LIVE.

"So it's hurting you?" Merlin asks slowly.

"Yes," I admit, and pause. His face is unreadable. I say the next words out of sheer determination: "But it's alright. I'm sure with time, I'll get used to it."

Merlin huffs, rolling his eyes. "Take it," he says, and grabs my hands with his. Our fingers lace together seamlessly; instinctive. "Go ahead."

It's contradicting, holding his hands in position to aliesan when I'll really be doing the opposite, but I can't help but find a small comfort in it as I give in, like the selfish child I am. I nod, and my mind goes through the soothing motions of sheathing:

A small, faraway island on a calm lake.

A golden sword pulled into its scabbard.

 _EMRYS_.

Merlin shudders, head bowing, and my eyes sting. "I'm sorry," I say in a hollow voice, looking down at our hands. "For Will." For taking your magic, again and again and again. For treating you any less than human. They are useless words, too much to ever make up for. My voice wavers, eyes welling up as I say, "For—for everything."

" _Arthur_." He says the name so sharply my head snaps up, meeting his eyes. They are tired, but brave. I realize, as he continues, that they've always looked brave. "You've punished yourself long enough for what's happened to me."

I glare at him, ignoring the tears that I can't blink back. Only right, that he sees me for who I truly am."I killed your friend, I took you away from here, I helped _enslave_ you—"

"There was a part you played in my becoming a recruit," he nods, firm, "but there's a more important part you've played, in helping me survive."

I shake my head and look down again; the tears are falling faster, in fat drops that splatter on our linked hands. Merlin squeezes them. "By being kind. By protecting me. By being my friend, looking out for me instead of yourself. And maybe that was all out of guilt; even so—"

"It wasn't." I lift my head, make sure he can see the truth in my eyes. "But it's not enough."

Merlin smiles softly. "Even so. I won't blame you."

"But I . . . I think I want to be blamed, Merlin," I finally let myself say, and my shoulders slump. It's like a release of poison, saying the truth out loud.

Merlin frowns, confused. He looks me over, thinking hard for a minute, and I try to not feel like I've been split open. Letting him into a part I scarcely knew existed inside myself: the need to self-atone.

He feels it; I'm aware for the first time of a soft feather touch of _other_ in my chest, and all at once Merlin's smile returns. "Well. Then . . . I will blame you."

A thrill of fear, of hurt, stabs into my gut and I think viciously to myself, _good_. It's only right.

Merlin lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh, though, and my brow furrows in bemusement. "But only," he says, one corner of his mouth still curled up, "if I can also forgive you. You've forgiven me after all, for everyone you've lost by my hand."

I blink at him owlishly. Foehart, and then Yilgrid, I realize he means after a moment. Who indeed used to be my family, my parents in a way, before all this happened. But Foehart had kidnapped Merlin, intended his slavery no matter his otherwise kind nature. Yilgrid chose to shun me, hurt me in hurting Merlin. They are a wound, a sore ache in my heart, but the loss of their love allowed me to gain something of much higher value.

I think of what I've gained. Merlin, most importantly; but I've gotten Morgana back as well, my sister in so many ways before Uther tore us apart. I've earned the trust of Gaius the physician, and the kind regard of Gwen the serf. I've gained strength, strength to judge for myself right from wrong and good from evil.

Perhaps most of all, strength to try to be brave, like Merlin has shown me how to be.

I let go and stand, offering a hand down to him with a small smile. "Alright."

Merlin's smile brightens. "Alright." I pull him up.

And there we stand. Having lost everything because of each other, loved ones and freedoms and our own innocence—but now, allies. Friends. _Brothers_.

And there is that nagging fear creeping from the back of my thoughts, reminding me of all that is and still will be unjust in this world. His forgiveness was never the answer. But in accepting it, I can see even clearer now that there is always an _unless_. There is a better way to atone: to look to the future, not the single path I've already walked. It is already behind me. It is time to stop looking back.

"Will you also forgive me, then, for what I'm about to do?" I ask then, realizing that some things must be inevitable. I know now what must be done.

Merlin grins, expectant. "And what is that?"

We head back to the largest cottage an hour later into the night: one in purpose. But I know I'll need to wait. It is late, and Nimueh is still crowded over my father, anxious and uncertain. It appears a bed has been dragged into the room for him to lay on. Morgana stands further back, calm. More ready to face death than the grown woman in front of her.

But Lord Uther is not dying, or so Morgana explains. "He's unconscious still, a lot of healing spells at once can do that. I suspect by morning our lord will rise. Right, my Lady?" She gives Nimueh the term mockingly.

Nimueh surprisingly rounds on Merlin and I with anger. "You stupid children, coming here like you could be some kind of heroes."

Merlin reels back, in shock. "If we hadn't come—"

"There would have been a battle! His Lordship wouldn't have had to trade his neck for his useless son's. And what are you doing here? You haven't managed to kill him yet, think you'll finish the job now?" Her eyes are wide, wild, too much like a cornered animal in this dark.

Merlin opens his mouth to spit something back, but I stop him with the thought, _She's afraid._ _We could be the reason for her death, remember?_

Merlin visibly struggles, but eventually he shuts his mouth. Nimueh never confirmed it, of course; but she'd disappeared from our tent rather than deny it. Now she stalks around Uther's bandaged body like a territorial dog, barking at anyone who nears. "Are you so afraid of dying?" Morgana asks, voice incredulous. She pushes off from the wall, and Nimueh snarls at her approach.

"Are you?" she hisses, eyes darting between Morgana and Merlin. "Death or the claim, that's the choice, and every one of us chose this. Life, or whatever imitation of it. Be thankful—it is still a better deal than _the Lady_ ever gave."

It takes me a moment to realize she's talking about herself. Mostly the older knights call her that, as well as a few other inhabitants of the Inner Circle, but never in her presence. I haven't thought much of the reason behind it; but now the implications expand after hearing her and Morgana say it, referencing for the first time to when she must have been free, before—free to create the claim herself.

Free to force it on others as well, it would seem.

Nimueh shuts her mouth, perhaps aware of what's going through our heads. Merlin looks livid, and I'm all at once grateful he doesn't have any power to go behind it. Morgana looks simply disgusted.

"You're still alive yet, my Lady," I say, not sure what expression is on my own face. Nimueh's face twitches. "Everyone get some rest, now."

Surprisingly enough, everyone listens. Not saying another word, I walk back to my spot in the sick room, and Merlin follows. He lays down where Will used to be, and I situate on my back, propping my splinted arm on my chest. It's almost odd, now, feeling that absence of pain below the burn scar.

 _Has it hurt at all since?_ Merlin asks, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts. Perhaps he can.

The truth is horrible, but he deserves to know it. _No._

 _Good. You'll know for the future now, when to take it back._

 _Merlin_ , I start, and then reach out for his skinny fingers in the dark. I find them curled up next to his face, and can feel him huff in annoyance as I tug them out. Lace them with mine.

 _What are you doing?_ He's trying to come off sounding annoyed, but I can hear the tentative hope anyway. I smile.

"Ic aliesan don min fero," I whisper into the chilled air, and think, _You cannot die. You will do whatever it takes to live_. Shivering as Merlin's eyes flash molten gold.

 _Was that—?_ He starts, eyes wide.

 _Something you have the right to,_ I tell him. No matter if it hurts me.

"I had it all along though, didn't I?" he whispers aloud, and smiles. The look of wonder on his face makes my heart ache, but I smile wider.

"Since the river," I correct. And the tugging is there, but it always was, just not so insistent like it has been the past two days. Now I have to search to feel the pull: the stretch of Merlin's magic, hanging in precarious balance between us.

The morning after the battle comes, and I wake at the sound of my father's voice, demanding to be caught up on the day before. Sir Jethro and some of his other knights help him limp out of the room, Nimueh hovering in the background, and I feign sleep still. I don't approach until later, midday, when he's surely been debriefed on all that's happened. For once, the truth will be in my favor.

"My lord," I start upon entering the slightly charred cottage, empty save for him. My father is sitting in a rickety chair, back bent, one hand against the bandaged side of his face. He startles up at the sound of my voice, but quickly recovers.

"Soldier," he nods, though his jaw is tight. "I do not wish to speak with you, not until we return to Camp. In the meantime—"

"Father," I cut in, and ignore the pounding of my heart at calling him such a thing. The sweat running down my back despite the winter chill, the subtle shake in my hands. I ball them into fists. "It's a matter of great importance. It cannot wait." His eyes are emotionless, expression smooth at first. I wonder if I will be turned away, and try not to panic at the thought. This has to work.

But then Uther Pendragon, warlord of southern Camelot and commander of a magical army, heaves a long, shaky sigh and says, "Son."

I blanch.

"Son, what is so important?" he intones heavily, staring across the room at the floor.

I try to keep my voice steady, even as the rest of me shakes. "My recruit, sir. He—"

"Convinced you to save this little town, I assume," he interrupts, eyes flicking to me slowly, knowingly.

"He convinced the dragons, sir," I say. "They listen to him. They wouldn't fight, because of what he told them."

"Perhaps. But not all of the beasts listened."

"No," I agree, and force myself to take a step forward. Uther raises a brow, waiting. "No, and yet we would all have been killed if it wasn't for him. I think—"

"What? I should give the recruit rank for merely doing its duty?" Uther cuts in, voice turning sharp. "You think soft things— _weak_ things, soldier. Things I have never been able to root out from you."

Thrills of fear strike in my gut, but I force myself another step. "He needs to be at the front lines," I declare.

"Winter will be over soon," my father shakes his head, and then stands. "After that you would have no place there."

"Then make a place for us," I argue and try not to feel small under his looming height. Uther frowns, the skin pulling against the bandages on his face. "Permanently. My recruit can stop the dragons. He can make them leave a battle, your men saw it. He can even slay one."

"And what of the little recruit's safety? Surely you won't throw it into the fray," Uther jeers.

"Many lives will be saved," I say, not specifying whose.

I startle back when my father laughs. It's a cold, harsh sound, like it always has been, but there's something else hidden in it. "Finally the soldier you were born to be. For all the wrong reasons," he adds, shaking his head. But Uther's smile quickly flees. I try to keep my gaze steady, not blink away from those assessing, colorless eyes.

Then he nods. Slow, at first, but steady. "The path could still be dangerous. We will head directly to the battle encampments, from which my men and I will leave and you will stay. You will be appointed as a squire and I will return in the Spring when we further our advance on Camelot. Dismissed."

And just like that I'm out the door and out of his reach, his constant dominating presence. Perhaps for the first time in my entire life. Merlin is waiting for me not too far off, wrapped in the red cloaks no one has taken away from us yet, and whatever expression is on my face makes his go crestfallen.

 _It didn't work_ , Merlin says, waiting for confirmation.

I shake my head, letting his face further droop, before replying, _I wouldn't say that._

Merlin looks up sharply. "Sorry?"

"We're leaving with them," I nod my head at the knights that pass us, "but we're making a quick stop first. At the battle encampments."

Merlin gusts out a half-laugh, half-sigh and looks up at the cloud-covered sky. "Thank the gods."

"The very place I've wanted to keep you from," I say with a sad grin.

"Yes, but before we realized I could command five dragons," he points out, and I nod. We make our way back to the main clearing, where knights and recruits alike pack up the remaining horses for the return journey. Little do they know of its sudden detour.

Merlin stops, however, and I know exactly where he's looking. I take the initiative to step off the snow-trodden path first, Merlin following as we round the corner of a house to the large pile of soot, ash and char.

 _I can't really command them_ , Merlin tells me, frowning down at the pyre's remains. _Kieran could have said no, I think. But I was able to . . . compel them. Before any fighting started. I don't know why._

 _You were convincing,_ I put in, thinking of Morgana's words. The rest of her vision is murky in my mind, but one important detail stands out as I stare down at Will's remains: there would be someone Merlin couldn't save.

 _I smelled like the sea and the sky_ , Merlin jests, though his smile is weak. _Just like Aithusa said._

 _Aithusa?_

 _The female dragon who saved us._

The one who heard him crying, somehow. I wonder at that, wonder at why the beast would care to stop. _What else did she say?_

Merlin doesn't respond for a moment, staring down at the pile of black wood and white bones. His eyes are far away as he says the words aloud, "To fight. To stop the mad king and his dragons, unite my people. Convince you."

I swallow, unable to decipher anything from his look or our connection. "Of what?"

Merlin smiles. "Doesn't matter. I have," he says, then grabs one of my hands. And now I can feel it; no need in trying, in understanding what is simply the open happiness radiating from him. It's suddenly right there. Reaching for me, infecting me with its light like it probably always has been—at the corner of his soul attached to mine.

* * *

 **A/N: ...**

 **...**

 **Sorry, I needed a few seconds. Merlin and Arthur are my children (even if I'm a horrible parent) and I just want to cuddle them. And give them all the happiness, despite what my plot suggests. *le sigh* Okay, so the story is obviously not over. But this part of it is. When we return, it's after five years of being at the front lines and in Merlin's POV (mostly). Tentatively only a sequel? Maybe a third part? I keep changing my mind. But ANYWAYs.**

 **Thank you for going on this journey with me. Thanks to my avid reviewers, my followers, my anon followers. All of my wonderful friends. Innate is still to come, so this is obviously not gooodbye - but as it will be a while before I start posting it (October!), I'm going to post a smaller Merlin fic I've already finished, just a funny reveal story. If you want something to tie you over, follow me!**

 **ALSO, if you liked this story then favorite it! Woohoo, what a great idea. More importantly, let me know what you think about the story. I really really really would like whatever criticism or feedback you have, and of course positive comments you can fish up are a special plus for my writer's ego, haha. But tell me WHATEVER, seriously. This is the biggest story I've ever written, much less completed, so I'd love feedback. That means YOU!**

 **Yes, I am posting this story under a few different author names as well! Don't be alarmed if you see it elsewhere :)**

 **Aaaaaaand lastly, all of my fics have songs that inspire me amidst writing. For Recruit, there was a LIST, (go to 8tracks .com, /imagineligers /the-corner-of-his-soul-attached-to-mine, without the spaces to listen!) but here's two:**

 **Map of the Problematique - Muse (Morgana saying "When we bleed we bleed the same" came from these lyrics)**

 **Heart's A Mess - Gotye (Suggested by the guest Ender, and honestly I LOVE IT SO MUCH you guys should all listen, the lyrics totally fit Arthur!)**

 **Okay, that's all . . . for me to do, that is, because obviously you guys are ALL going to let me know what you think? Right?**

 **Thanks for reading, friends :)**

 **Cheers!**  
 **LifeIndeed**


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